Dakota Blues

by Lynne Spreen

  “Well.” He withdrew his hand and stood. “Good night.”

  Mae watched him walk away. “I’m sorry. He is a little bit not himself tonight.”

  “At least he has a nice place to rest. Your coach is beautiful,” said Karen, hoping to break the tension.

  “Yes. We live in it fulltime.” Mae put another piece of wood on the fire. “It was Wallace’s dream. He sold our home in Boston as soon as our youngest went away to university.”

  “I’ve heard of people doing that, selling their house and RVing fulltime after retirement,” said Karen. “It seems fascinating. Do you like it?”

  “There are plusses and minuses.”

  “It must be a great way to visit with the kids,” said Frieda. “You travel around the country, stop at their place and park your own little house right out on the curb.”

  “That was our intention. However, we haven’t seen either of them for two years, although we speak on the telephone frequently, and I can make video calls on my computer.”

  “Wallace is the one with wanderlust,” Karen guessed.

  “He likes to keep moving.” Mae glanced back at the coach. “I would prefer to be near them more often. But Wall was raised in difficult circumstances. It has shaped him.”

  “He’s lucky he found you, Mae.”

  “Oh, no. I am the lucky one. He is a good man.” Mae drained her glass.

  “Mae!”

  She disappeared into the trailer, and Karen stared into the flames. She felt the amber liquid warming her insides, and the embers pulled her gaze into the glowing orange-white fissures in the fire pit. The beautiful destruction of the burning flames hypnotized her. Nothing’s perfect, she thought. Regardless of the tension around the campfire, she felt at peace. She had seen so much beauty, given Frieda a chance to visit old sites, and ended their day with a fine meal. Under the influence of the cognac, the news of Steve’s legal broadside receded into the background. Aromatic tendrils of wood smoke laced the air, drifting toward her and then away. For years she had reproached herself for not living more in the moment, but in this moment, she felt fully present.

  The screen door opened and Mae approached, holding a framed portrait. “This is my family. Four generations.”

  Frieda took the painting, her hands gripping it tightly. “My goodness. This is a work of art, Mae.”

  “Yes, it’s an original oil.”

  Karen leaned in closer. In the painting, the two daughters flanked Mae and her mother, who held a great-grandchild on her lap. In the row behind, the sons-in-law stood grinning on either side of an impassive Wallace.

  “It was painted in Sweden. That was the last time I saw my mother. She passed away soon after.” Mae took the picture back, her eyes locked on the canvas. “She is the one who taught me to cook.”

  “She’s beautiful, Mae, like you and the girls.”

  “I wish I could have visited her more often. When she became ill, I tried.” Mae watched while Karen poured more cognac. “Wallace was uncomfortable flying. We argued for days. Even my daughters fought with him, and he finally relented, but we missed our chance.”

  Shaking her head, Frieda handed Mae the painting.

  Karen capped the decanter and handed a glass to Mae. “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  Mae stared at the painting on her lap. “It is very hard sometimes.”

  They heard the sound of pots and pans clanking together, and Mae glanced nervously at the coach. “I wish he would leave the dishes. He thinks he is helping but he has so little patience.” She flinched as a kettle hit the floor.

  “Goddamn it!”

  Mae jumped up as if sprung from a catapult, her eyes fixed on the coach, forgetting the painting. Too late, she felt the frame leap from her fingertips. The three women lurched forward as one, trying to grab it, but in her panic Mae batted the picture toward the roaring logs. With a scream, she watched as the painting landed in the center of the flames and began to blacken.

  Karen grabbed Mae from behind and pulled her back from the fire pit. The three of them watched in horror as the flames licked the canvas and the faces of Mae’s family disappeared. When the frame had curdled to a blistered black rectangle, Mae fell back against the table, a strangled sound escaping her throat. Karen wrapped her in a hug. Frieda was speechless. They stared at the fire until the painting was indistinguishable from the rest of the charred logs.

  Mae slipped from Karen’s embrace. “It was inevitable.” With small uncertain steps, she returned to the coach, closing the door without a word.

  The camp fell silent except for the snap and snarl of the fire pit. Frieda, her limbs trembling, pulled her coat tight and reached for Karen’s arm. Together the two of them felt their way through the dark woods, the icy pine air burning their windpipes. Night in the Black Hills had fallen with a deep chill.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “We should have brought a flashlight.” Frieda clutched Karen’s arm. Away from the fire, their teeth chattered.

  “I think the moon’s full enough, once our eyes adjust.” Karen matched her pace to Frieda’s, inching back to the security of their camp. In the dark, she unlocked the RV and felt around for the light, then helped Frieda into the van. While Frieda leaned against the kitchen counter and shivered, Karen figured out how to turn on the heater. Then she pulled bedding and pillows from a compartment, and converted the dinette table in the rear into a bed.

  Still in her velour track suit, Frieda burrowed under the covers and groaned with relief. “My God, I forgot how cold it gets up here.”

  Karen pulled the curtains closed over each window. She reconfigured the seats in the front of the van, turning two captain’s chairs around to face each other and connecting them with a mattress board. Next she laid down a layer of bedding, and finally a sleeping bag lined with down. Shivering, her skin covered in goose bumps, she changed into a pair of sweats and dove under the covers. She reached for the light switch. “Good night, Frieda.”

  “‘Night.”

  Silence fell in the pitch-blackness. Karen looked up at the ceiling, or rather, where she assumed it was. The darkness was so complete, a hand could have reached out and touched her nose and she wouldn’t have seen it coming.

  “Frieda?”

  “Hmm.”

  “I can’t get Mae’s face out of my mind.”

  “What a shame,” said Frieda.

  “I know. That picture meant everything to her.”

  “It’s not just the picture.” Frieda moved around, getting comfortable. “I meant her whole life. Here she is so accomplished and educated, and it all goes for what? A lifetime with that piece of garbage? What a tragedy.”

  “You don’t know, though. She’s smart, so I assume she weighed it out.”

  “Life with him? Hard to imagine she knew what was coming.”

  “Every marriage is a mystery.” Karen didn’t want to remember the look of despair on Mae’s face. Shivering, she tried to focus on tomorrow and the road ahead. One more night on the road and then they’d be in Denver.

  “I hate to see women sacrifice themselves. Your mother fell into that trap, I’m sorry to say. Not me. I went right out and got a job. I worked even when I was raising Sandy. Russell didn’t mind. Not like it would’ve mattered. I would’ve done it anyway.”

  The van rocked slightly as Karen tried to get comfortable. She hadn’t yet mastered the art of sleeping in the narrow bed and feared she’d dump out onto the floor if she weren’t careful.

  “What about you?” Frieda asked.

  Karen lay still. “What about me?”

  “How come you’re getting divorced?”

  “Can this wait until tomorrow?”

  “Sure, you don’t have to tell me.” Frieda sighed. “Well, as I said, I was good to Russell but we were independent. Not like Mae. I think she’s like one of those–what do you call them–Stockholm people. Mae’s like a prisoner.”

  “The picture falling into the fire was an accident.�
��

  “You can say it that way, but if I were her, I’d take it as a sign. Most people live like that, as oblivious as a frog in a pan of boiling water. It happens slow, over a whole lifetime. You don’t notice until you’re laying on your deathbed thinking, ‘I was such an idiot.’”

  The back of Karen’s head started to throb thanks to the amount of wine and cognac she’d enjoyed. The older she got, the less she could drink. It wasn’t fair.

  Frieda, her voice sleepier now, continued. “I believe a person gets good at whatever they practice in life. In this case, Mae’s gotten good at settling.” She paused. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes, but I’m exhausted.”

  “Do you ever think about what you want out of life?”

  “All the time, I guess. I don’t know. My head hurts.”

  “You want me to get you some aspirin?”

  “No, thanks.” Silence fell in the van, and Karen heard her phone vibrate softly. She grabbed it from the console, flipped it open, and read the text message.

  “I miss U 2,” she texted back before shutting it off.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The next morning, Karen awoke to the squawks of battling blue jays. The van was still dark, but the edges of the curtains were outlined by the gray light of dawn. She pulled the sleeping bag up around her chin. In the back of the van, Frieda slept quietly.

  Karen remembered then that it was Saturday, and felt a reflexive sense of joy. She had worked enough years that weekends always felt special, even if she was currently out of a job. There was always hope she and Steve might be able to spend a little time together, maybe work around the garden or see a movie. In reality, when Saturday morning dawned, he slept in while she rose early to tackle the leftover work in her briefcase. She envied his casual approach, raking in both cash and clients without even trying. If he awoke before she finished working, he’d lean against the sink and watch her, his eyes clear and bright from untroubled sleep. Holding his coffee cup in one hand, he’d run the other through his hair, incredulous. “Why don’t you hire somebody to do that?”

  “No money.”

  “There’s always money. They’re taking advantage of you.” He slurped his coffee. “I know you hate hearing this, but you’re afraid to delegate.”

  “If something goes wrong, it reflects on me.”

  “So you apologize and move on. Tony Robbins says you should make a new mistake every day.”

  “Tony Robbins is his own boss.”

  “You could be too.” Tiring of watching her, Steve would stretch, shower and head for the gym or golf course. Even now, the memory of his amusement rankled until she remembered he was gone. She tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t quit staring into the black hole of her former life.

  He had wanted more of her time and attention, and over the years she tried to find a middle ground between working like a maniac and being a good wife, but the phone always rang, the emails and texts and instant messaging never stopped. That was the way of work in the twenty-first century. Years ago, a person could go home, put her feet up, and forget about work until the next morning. Now with new technology, the employer’s leash reached all the way to your nightstand.

  Steve used to say he was proud of her, and he enjoyed showing her off at corporate events. My wife, the executive, he’d say. She’s my copilot. The sky’s the limit.

  Was that an act?

  She rolled over, trying not to fall out onto the floor.

  They were at lunch during a workday, at a fancy restaurant in Laguna Beach, when he told her he was leaving. He mentioned it quietly, when she was halfway through her salad. In order not to scream she had reached for the sweating glass of iced tea and taken too large a swallow, inciting both a severe coughing fit and brain freeze. When she stopped choking she caught him looking at his watch.

  Now he was about to start his life over again with a woman half his age and soon, a baby. He’d be in his sixties, kicking a soccer ball around; in his seventies when the child would graduate high school. Karen wondered if the reality of it all had hit him yet.

  Not like she cared.

  Frieda coughed, and Karen waited, hoping the old women would sleep for another half-hour or so. Karen wasn’t ready to start working, not just yet. When silence returned, her mind wandered again, surveying the desolate landscape of her future. She roved back and forth, from welcoming her new independence to fearing it, from wanting to be left alone to a fear she would be completely alone for the rest of her life.

  Except there was Curt, and she smiled in the half-light. If nothing else, he had shown her that her body still worked. More than worked. It excelled. For that, she would always be grateful. She wondered whether he was up, and if she should call him, but she’d only just left and didn’t want to appear clingy. But he’d seemed happy to hear from her.

  Karen wondered if she’d made a mistake in leaving so soon after connecting with him. The guy had so much to offer, but on the other hand, she wasn’t even single yet. She had never lived alone. What would it feel like, to have all your free time for yourself, never feeling guilty about neglecting your other? How cool would that be?

  The downside, of course, was loneliness. In the right proportion, they called it solitude. But what if she got lonely? To whom would she go to fill that void? She had no real friends outside of her job.

  Her ex-job.

  She rubbed her eyes. Thinking too much, as usual. Frieda was still asleep. Maybe Karen could sneak out and get a quick shower before they hit the road and headed for a campground in Wyoming, three hundred miles southwest. Tomorrow morning she would drop Frieda in Denver and point the van toward California.

  The thought of home invigorated her. She found her sneakers and coat, grabbed a towel and slipped out of the van, quietly locking the door behind her. The sun had not yet touched the tips of the pines, but already the tang of wood smoke scented the air. All around the sounds of an awakening camp echoed through the trees: the chop and rip of wood splitting into kindling, the clank of pot against stove, a car door slamming in the distance.

  At the shower building, she removed her clothes and, shivering, stepped into the stall. She ducked under the hot water, letting it stream over her face. The steam enveloped her in a cloud of warmth as the minutes ticked by and the fog built an opaque white wall between her and the rest of the world. Here she could stop thinking, aware only of the heat and the sound of splashing water. No pain hammered against her heart; no ideas permeated her brain. Nothing compelled her to move, to comply with obligations, to assess her guilt or victimhood. She leaned into the stinging droplets, eyes closed, bracing herself against the fiberglass wall of the shower, wishing she could stay under forever.

  When the door creaked and another woman entered the building, Karen turned off the faucets, toweled off, and dressed. Outside, her breath fogged in the cold air, but the sun had finally crested the pines and the campground glowed in the morning light. The smell of coffee and bacon made her hungry. When she opened the door of the van, Frieda sat at the table, munching a cold Pop-Tart. “Good, you’re dressed. Mae invited us to go see Mt. Rushmore this morning.”

  “We agreed to leave early. Remember? We talked about this.”

  Frieda got up and threw the wrapper in the trash. “Your phone rang.”

  Karen played the new messages from Steve, each one more demanding than the last. She knew him well enough to read stress in his tone. No doubt his girlfriend was applying pressure. “Be reasonable,” his message said. “I’m trying to make this easy for both of us.” She shoved the phone back in her purse and went outside to roll up their sleeping bags on the picnic table. Frieda pulled on a jacket and sat in the sun while Karen organized and packed.

  “Watch your head.” Karen unsnapped the van’s canvas awning from its metal poles and rolled it up, shaking the fabric slightly to dislodge pine needles and tree droppings without raining woodland detritus on Frieda. When the awning was fastened in its holder, she fol
ded and stowed the poles, cursing when she pinched her finger in a hinge.

  Mae appeared. “Good morning. Are you ready?”

  “Turns out we can’t go,” said Frieda. “My friend here is in a big fat hurry.”

  “You’re leaving so soon? That is a shame.”

  Karen gave a little wave but kept working. She was getting tired of explaining herself.

  Mae shrugged. “I was hoping we could spend more time together, but in any case, I have something for you.” She disappeared back into the trees.

  Karen had been working around Frieda, but now she was down to the chair in which Frieda was sitting, and the rug beneath it. The old lady simply licked a thumb and turned the page in her magazine. “I’m not done yet.”

  Karen shook her head and went inside for one last look, but she could find nothing else to clean, pack, or store. Giving up, she went back outside and plopped in the chair next to Frieda. “You’re dragging your feet on purpose.”

  “I’m trying to enjoy my story. Did you know that people forget ninety percent of their dreams?”

  “Very interesting. Ready?”

  “You’ve got such a burr under your saddle.” Frieda looked up, her eyes magnified behind her glasses. “We’re free as the breeze right now, nobody telling us what to do or where to go. Why do you want to mess with that?”

  Karen stood. “At the rate we’re going, the sun will set before we get to Cheyenne. I don’t want to be out looking for our campsite in the dark.”

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Frieda closed her magazine and looked around the camp, absorbing in one slow sweep the thieving jays, racing squirrels, and swaying pine branches. She held out her hand and let Karen pull her up out of her chair. Mae reappeared carrying two pink flamingoes.

  “I never used them. Wallace feels they project a lower-class image, but I think they are cute.” Mae handed them to Karen to pack.

  “Adorable,” said Frieda. “We’ll set them up tonight.”

  Karen put her hand on Mae’s arm. “I can’t stop thinking about the painting. How are you doing?”