by Carol Mason
Over at the creamer station I spend an inordinate amount of time shaking a packet of sugar on to the foam and watching the golden grains blur into the white. Don’t cry. God, don’t cry! I try to breathe, the sense of hands tight around my neck loosening fractionally.
As I’m putting a lid on my cup, I notice something on the board right in front of me. Among the desktop-published flyers advertising book clubs, Port Townsend’s residents looking to take in boarders, photos of missing cats, details about the Lavender Festival and the Wooden Boat Festival, is a sheet of writing paper, the quality of good old English Basildon Bond. I recognise it right away.
The Correspondents’ Club
If there is something you would like to say, to someone who might like to hear from you. Or if you remember, with fond nostalgia, the lost art of writing a letter and putting it in the mail, the simple pleasure of receiving one – then we are a small group who will be meeting here, in Port Townsend’s Books and Beans café on the first and third Tuesday of every month. Our mission is to make time to put good old-fashioned pen to paper, for whatever reason that calls us, and perhaps to make new friends in the process. Come along at 7 p.m. Supplies will be provided.
I can’t stop staring at the small decorative flourish drawn next to the title, and picturing Beth intently drawing it that day.
Hmm . . . a letter-writing circle, I think, once I get outside and begin walking down the street. Somehow the angst of five minutes ago has waned, allowing a pleasant thought to enter in.
It’s a lovely idea.
For civilised people. Not that I am one of them, of course.
SEVEN
The salesman in the canary yellow shirt is clearly not used to dealing with a woman.
‘Depends on what you’re looking for. Are you thinking cedar? Pressure-treated? Composite?’
I pull the sample of wood from the bin bag and tell him my grand plan.
He takes it off me and is already shaking his head, rubbing it with his pointy thumbnail as bits slough off on to the floor. ‘Cedar rots fast in our rainy climate. This hasn’t been resealed. Deck’s probably no more than ten years old. I’m not even sure you’ll be able to nail new wood to rotting. There’ll be nothing to hold.’
A woman’s squawky voice comes over the terrible sound system announcing a sale on kitchen appliances. ‘OK.’ I try to talk over the top of the garbled message. ‘Want to tell me my other options and the costs?’ I hand him some hasty measurements scrawled on the back of an envelope.
Listening to his lengthy monologue, I am besieged with the strangest of realisations. It’s possible I’ve never been in a home hardware store without Mark. Out of the two of us, I am the handier, though that’s not saying much. I’ve refinished antique tables, upholstered the odd chair. My most adventurous undertaking was subway-tiling the backsplash in our old kitchen and we got endless compliments about it. I can still hear him telling friends, ‘Oh yes, we did it over the weekend.’ We? Ha! And he’d smile that slightly self-satisfied smile that said the credit really was all his. If I needed to go and buy paint Mark would be there telling me he was pleased I’d gone with the arctic grey because that was the one he’d originally suggested. If it was vaguely man’s work, even by outdated definitions, Mark would be there, hanging about, waiting to put his rubber stamp on things – acting the part of the handy husband, trying to be what every other husband we seemed to know already was. It was equal parts endearing and maddening.
And yet . . . he was there. I’ve never really considered what that meant, or what the absence of that would feel like. I hadn’t ever imagined it being any different.
‘Are you OK?’ I vaguely register that the salesman is looking worried.
When I touch the back of my neck I am drenched around my hairline. Mark would have been here. Mark would have an opinion on the wood.
For an instant I imagine he’s just over in aisle eight looking at barbecues. He’ll poke his head around the corner any minute, ready to give the yay or nay. But knowing he isn’t – that Nanette’s house isn’t some little cottage retreat we bought and are renovating, where we will see out our old age, with visits from Jess and our grandkids – delivers the most stupefying smack of reality. We’re not going to drive home together and stop off for a spontaneous nice dinner. He won’t stick a plant in front of it when my project is an epic fail. He will never again try to fix our gurgling toilet with dental floss, or stop the leak under our old kitchen sink with one of his Happy Socks. I won’t ever have to watch him fiddling under a cabinet with pipes, saying ‘shit, fuck, bastard’ every time he bangs his head. Or listen to, ‘Why don’t you do something to help me?’
Then something surreal happens. I turn around and he’s there. He is looking at me and when I smile at him, he smiles back. I am held there by the spell of hopeful surprise. Only then I realise he isn’t smiling at me. ‘What do you think about this?’ I hear a woman’s voice ask, from just behind me. ‘Perfect,’ he replies, like they are in the early days of playing house and he’s on his best behaviour, being all agreeable. Then he walks past me as though I’m not there and places his big arm around her waist.
The salesman is still staring at me. My hand is slapped over my mouth. I back up, turn, almost bump into someone then practically break into a run. After a few frustrating attempts to exit through an entrance door, aware my little meltdown is attracting the attention of people checking out at the tills, I manage to flee through the correct one.
In the car, I slam the door shut. It’s uncharacteristically warm today, like summer arrived overnight. In no time I’m engulfed in heat. The sensible thing would be to get the air conditioning going. But for a short time I just sit here and imagine what it would be like to suffocate.
EIGHT
Beth has her ‘Wet Floor’ sign up. I shake off my old wax Barbour jacket at the door. When I venture inside, there are one or two customers at the counter, and a young couple on my sofa, but they’re too into one another to be here for a letter-writing club. I don’t know what I was expecting. The whole town to turn out?
I am not a coffee drinker beyond noon so I decide to order a hot chocolate just to give me something to hold. I walk over to the counter, wondering where Beth is – mopping sweat off the muffins? Suddenly someone taps my shoulder and says, ‘Hi! I’m Amy! Are you here for the Correspondents’ Club?’ I turn and find myself staring at a woman with a face like a smiling moon. She has tiny, button-like green eyes, and bluish-white teeth that are made more dazzling by very matte, brick red lipstick. As she hangs there waiting for my response, the expectation that I might be her new best friend slowly dies on her face.
‘Olivia,’ I say, a little stunned. ‘And . . . yes, I suppose I am here for the club.’ Saying it is what suddenly makes it real.
Next I find myself pinned to the counter, this Amy’s nose so close to mine I must be turning cross-eyed. ‘Isn’t this fun! Who are you going to write to? I love writing letters and these clubs are so popular now if you look online. Everything comes full circle . . .’ She babbles on. Her breath isn’t the most pleasant and I find myself leaning backwards over the counter. But the more I do, the more she leans in, until I’m trapped and beginning to panic.
‘This is Bernie.’ She thrusts her iPhone at me and there’s a small white poodle on the screen. I can feel Mark nudging me and smiling: Why do all the crazies love you? ‘Now, I’m a reasonable person. I believe in live and let live. Dogs bark. Dogs have rights just like people. But I can promise you no dog barks like Bernie. Bernie barks at squirrels, at the mail man, at a train rumbling by. Bernie barks at my curtain if it twitches. All day and all night . . . This dog never stops. Every time I try to bring it up with his owner, the man just slams the door in my face! Oh! I am at my wits’ end.’ She finally removes her hand from near my face, and I think, Good Lord, woman! It’s you who needs a muzzle, not the dog! ‘So I decided I’m going to write to Bernie’s owner. No one can interrupt a letter.’
&nb
sp; ‘Good luck,’ I tell her. She backs up a fraction and I slide out from under her and make a beeline for the door.
It happens again. As I am on my way out, a man is on his way in. I am almost butted against the same leather jacket, conscious of the same pleasing smell, and the same diminishing of light and air. Time stretches, then he says, ‘I’m starting to take this personally.’
I look up but once again see only my head disproportionately reflected in the aviator shades.
‘I was joking,’ he says, awkwardly, perhaps because I have hesitated. My surprise has robbed me of my wit.
‘Sorry – I . . .’ Heat rushes to my cheeks. ‘I know you were.’
Neither of us moves.
‘I’m here for the club.’ He removes his glasses and two warm brown eyes meet mine; one of them – his left – is painfully bloodshot. ‘You?’ And now I see more clearly what shocked me before. It looks like he may have suffered burns to one side of his face. He has particularly prominent scars on the lower portion of his left cheek, running down his neck and disappearing under his collar, and a few paler patches of mottled pink skin on his forehead. I don’t know whether it’s the thought of flesh on fire, or the fact that his eyes are scoping out my face as though he’s just landed from another planet and I am the first human he’s seen, but suddenly his proximity is overwhelming.
‘Well, I was,’ I say, ‘but I’m leaving.’
‘Oh . . .’ He continues to stand there then says, ‘Sorry to hear that.’
I am guessing he’s in his early thirties, at most. He has one of those accents that sounds like he’s from nowhere in particular. Our bodies are still way too close for comfort. We must both recognise this at the same time because I step left and he steps right, then we repeat this the other way and end back in the same place. I wave a hand, meaning, Seriously, can I get past you?
He steps aside while I consciously stand still to ensure we won’t repeat this farcical dance again. Once I’m past him and outside, I let out a small sigh of relief.
I walk briskly along the path, but I can’t rid myself of the spatial memory of his body, nor can I unsee that face. I slow down only when I turn on to Water Street. Now what? I don’t feel like going back to the house; I am suddenly highly charged and restless. I walk to the end of the block but reach it too soon. Now where? Annoyance strums in me. Why am I always running? No one knows the first thing about me; I don’t know why I have to act so bizarrely.
When I go back inside, Beth and this Amy are laughing. For a second I think it’s at me and I’m just about to do a U-turn, when Amy says, ‘Ah! You’re back! We thought we’d scared you off!’ She cackles. She’s built like a barrel and is wearing the gayest of pink and green shoes to match an overly colourful 50s-style dress. If I took a sneak picture and sent it to Jessica she would shriek laughing. Just the thought makes a smile almost break out.
‘Not really,’ I tell her. ‘I thought I’d dropped something.’
‘Your money or your uppity attitude?’ Beth looks like she’s weighing me to see how I’m going to take it.
‘My keys.’ I smile, and tug at the linen scarf looped around my throat.
I am saved by the opening of the door. A dapper-looking older man and a young boy come in. The man appraises the room as though he’s pleased with what he finds. The little boy looks cautiously curious but then suddenly hides behind the older man’s back.
‘What’s the matter, Daniel?’ He reaches around to pat the boy’s head.
The child peeps out and I see where he’s looking. The guy with the burns is sitting in the corner by the window where the young couple were. He looks like he’s trying desperately hard to blend in. ‘What happened to your face?’ the boy says.
‘I’m sorry.’ The old man looks over at him. ‘My grandson asks too many questions.’
‘It’s OK,’ the guy replies. Then, to the little boy, who has returned to hiding behind his granddad’s leg, ‘Hey, you don’t have to be scared of me.’
The kid emerges again, stands there as though he has reluctantly found himself on stage and has forgotten his lines. ‘But why do you look like that?’ he asks, shyly.
Suddenly Beth stops steaming milk. After a beat or two of hesitation, during which you could hear a pin drop, he says, ‘I had an accident.’ He says it quite matter-of-factly, but the way he’s clutching his sunglasses indicates otherwise. ‘I was in a war. In Afghanistan. I was blown up.’
‘Oh my gawd!’ Amy says.
The soldier glances at me, but before I can even react Daniel is saying, ‘I know about the Afghanistan war! The people in those countries, well, they are always fighting and sometimes America has to go and help them sort it out.’
His granddad pats his head and catches my eye.
‘But how did you get blown up?’
I’m starting to find this kid annoying.
The soldier looks at me again. Does he want rescuing? ‘I was in a Humvee that went over a land mine,’ he says, and my blood runs cold.
Daniel’s eyes become saucers. ‘Wow! How did that feel?’
The soldier releases his grip on his glasses and puts them on the table with an air of purpose, but I sense he might be buying time. I notice his hands are badly scarred, more so than his face. He has taken off his jacket and is wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt made of soft grey jersey material. It hugs him enough to see that he’s fit but not the beefcake build you’d normally associate with someone in the military. He has chestnut-coloured hair – a crew cut without any parting, and a nicely shaped head with ears that stick out slightly, reminding me of tiny, cupped hands. ‘Well, fortunately for me, I don’t really remember,’ he says.
I realise I’ve fallen into a state of mild catatonia and need to snap out of it. ‘Maybe Daniel would like a muffin?’ I pick up a tray of sweaty offerings and hold it out to the kid.
Daniel couldn’t care less about a muffin. ‘Are your scars going to heal?’ he asks.
Good heavens! To think I was upset that Nanette asked if I was a member of a library!
‘They are healed.’ I watch this man inspect his own hands – perhaps for want of somewhere to put his eyes. ‘I sustained burns to over forty per cent of my body. I’ve had countless surgeries to improve how I look, but I won’t get any better than this, unfortunately.’
It intrigues me how objectively he is talking about something so utterly unimaginably awful. Daniel looks like he’s going to cry. His granddad and I exchange a knowing glance that says, He’s annoying, but he’s just a child!
‘Here.’ I offer him the tray again, feeling bad for being irritated by him. ‘These are really delicious. Try one.’
He reaches out and, after a brief calculation, selects the big chocolate one.
His granddad says, ‘We’re here for the Correspondents’ Club. I hope you don’t mind that one of the participants is a child. Sometimes a trying one.’ When he sees what Daniel has in his hand, he says, ’Daniel, you know, perhaps you should ask first before you take the biggest and the last of something. It would be good manners.’
‘But I’ll probably eat it all. And that’s good manners too, isn’t it?’
‘He’s got a point there!’ I laugh. ‘But it’s not my club, if that’s what you’re thinking. Perhaps because I’m giving out the food?’
‘Sorry.’ The old man blanches. ‘We don’t live in town. We just dropped in one day and saw the notice. I just assumed it was. You have the look of a proprietor about you.’
When I turn, the soldier is right behind me. I think I feel the proximity of him immediately before our eyes connect. ‘I’m Ned Parker by the way.’ He holds out a badly burned hand. ‘As we keep running into one another in doorways.’
I’ve never been so powerfully aware of a hand before I shake it.
‘Olivia.’ Now that I’m over the shock of his scars I can look at him more objectively. If you extrapolate an entire face from the one side that seems to have fared better than the other, it’s pr
etty obvious he’d have been quite the head-turner.
Then I think, Have been? How awful that I just referred to him in the past tense.
‘Bet you wish you’d never come back.’ His tone is trying to be light, and I find myself warming to his stiff attempt at humour despite the shiver that’s still running up my spine.
‘The thought did cross my mind.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ he says, not in a flirty way, just more matter-of-fact.
Conversation sharply falls off. Perhaps because I don’t know where else to take it. How do you make casual chit-chat with someone who has suffered burns to forty per cent of his body? Then again, maybe he doesn’t even want me to. ‘Muffin?’ I pick up the tray I set down earlier and hope he doesn’t note my trembling hand. I wonder what it is about the sight of burned skin that can do this to you.
‘Thanks. They look great. Did you bake them?’ He takes one.
‘Please!’ I pull a face. ‘I’d do a much better job than this.’
He makes a better attempt at smiling now, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. If I were a guessing person, I’d say it’s not something he does too often. I find myself returning it.
After another awkward moment he goes and sits at one of the school desks. I watch him fidgeting for a bit to get comfortable and I get an overwhelming urge to snap a sneak photo and send it to Jess.
Beth has set up a supplies table by the creamer stand and the old man and the little boy are perusing it. There is assorted writing paper, notepads, flip pads, clipboards, postcards, envelopes, local and international stamps. There are Post-it notes, pencils with erasers, ballpoint pens in different colours, even old-fashioned liquid paper and a couple of pocket dictionaries. On all of the little desks are economical borderless picture frames with quotes in them. To give me something to do, I work my way up the line, reading a few of them: Emily Post said never send an angry letter.