Parts of this story take place in a real town, but every single one of the characters is fictional, just so you know. The places come from my memories, the people, solely from my imagination. Here goes –
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I lounged on my patio for most of this lovely summer morning. I drank coffee, listened to the crows’ conversation, and reminisced about my Maine hometown. I mostly remembered making out with my high school boyfriend, Klinger, on the bandstand in Hathorn Park. I say my high school boyfriend, but really, we only dated for three months my junior year. There are so many makeout spots in that town, and over those three months, we tried them all. Fond memories. Quite fond, indeed. It’s almost thirty years later. I still can’t decide whether or not to go to my reunion next summer.
I need to get a move on; stop daydreaming. It’s 11 o’clock. I say that to myself, then I think about Klinger some more. I wonder what became of him. I want to Google, but that’s kind of stalking, and I won’t go there. Then, I think about The Pondo. My kitty, Ralph, hears me laugh out loud, and gives me a curious, rather judgmental look. Its real name was the Ponderosa Room, the bar at the little Landmark Motor Inn. I was underage, and never tried to get in, but a lot of my friends tried, and some of them did get in. If you could get in, that was really a big thing. Something to brag about. Hey, I got into the Pondo Saturday night! I got so drunk. But I was always on the outside of things, an observer. I’m still like that. I’d rather be safe. I suppose that’s boring, but that’s the way I am.
This time I stop daydreaming for real, and come back to the present. I need to think about what to wear on my date tonight with Bentley Jones. I had my eye on Bentley for over six months, and he finally noticed me and asked me out. This will be our third date. Two of my girlfriends are jealous. I haven’t told them yet that Ben isn’t that great a guy. That in fact, I don’t like him. Tonight, I plan to tell him I don’t want to see him again. I hope I can get a word in before he starts pushing for a sleepover, either here or at his place. Last thing I want. But Adele and Claire say, you’re so lucky! And I want to say, well, he’s kind of a snob. He doesn’t like the way I dress. He says I’m too casual. Have I thought about upgrading my car? He cringed when I ate chips with my burger on our first date. He was dying to scold me, I could tell. And there are other things. Most of all, he doesn’t like cats. That’s a deal breaker for me. I want to tell them that I idealized him too much. I only knew him as a sexy (appearance wise) man in my writer’s group. Sometimes, the idea of something is better than the real thing. You know how that is, right? But they won’t get it. They’ll say I’m too picky about men. And I am picky, but I deserve to be.
In the end, it doesn’t matter what Adele, or Claire, or anyone else thinks. Ben’s all looks, and little substance that’s not about money or designer suits. I’ll end things anyway, because I want to. But what to wear to do it?
I want to egg him on a little. Make him comment on my clothes or my hair. Or scold me for what I order for dinner. It’s only our third date, but he wants to be with me. How obnoxious will he dare to be? We’re going to meet at The Embers. I didn’t want him to pick me up. And I said I want us to pay separately. He gave me an odd look, but he agreed. When he suggested The Embers, I was again reminded of my hometown, Pittsfield, Maine. There was a little family restaurant named that there. When I was a kid, my favorite thing to have was a cheeseburger and fries. Isn’t that every kid’s favorite? Or a western omelette. But the Embers here is very trendy and expensive. A little, (or a lot?) annoying. Figures. Just like him. Why did I agree to go? Why didn’t I just say no thank you? Anyone’s guess is as good as mine.
I choose the teensiest black dress I have. I’ve never worn it, precisely because it’s so teensy. I mean, I didn’t bare this much skin when I was twenty. I’m forty seven now. I blame Adele. She encouraged me to buy it. She said I looked great in it when I tried it on. That I have a sensational figure for my age. Ahem, not a great thing to say. For my age, Dele? I said. You know what I mean, Heather, she said. So I bought it on a lark, but it’s perfect for tonight. He can’t say it’s too casual, right? I can’t exactly be casual in this black velvet handkerchief.
In fact, it’s only noon, but I should wear it for awhile, just to practice sitting down and getting up in it. Where are my black stilettos? What if I fdwwt? Fall down while wearing this? That would embarrass Bentley, but it would also embarrass me. I’ll just put the dress on for an hour or so. I’ve had plenty of practice wearing heels.
I put on the dress, but stay barefoot. I sit on the couch and try to get comfy enough to read my book. I’m halfway through The Golden Bowl, by Henry James. It’s a difficult read, but worth it. Ralph wants to take a nap on my lap. I say, no furry sweetheart.. the dress. He falls asleep on the other side of the couch on the red suede pillow. I read three pages, then I feel sleepy. I think about how I really don’t want to go on this ridiculous date with Bentley. I’ll just text him and cancel, and that will be that. Get out of this ridiculous dress, put on jeans and a tee shirt and relax. I send the text, and go to get up to change, but I can’t. I’m too sleepy. I lie down so Ralph sleeps at my feet, and pull on the quilt my Mom gave me last year. Perfect. With my eyes half closed, I focus on my dining room table and its centerpiece, a copper vase filled with yellow irises to celebrate springtime. Irises and snapdragons are my favorites; both are spring blooms.
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I must be half awake still. I hear a familiar voice say,
You’re going to love this, sweetie. I’m making your favorite chicken stew for supper. You keep napping, and I’ll read some of my book. Wake you up when it’s ready, okay? I feel the voice kiss me gently on my forehead. I’m so drowsy.
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I see Klinger and I at a table at The Embers. The Embers from my childhood. Then, I’m at the table sitting across from him. Our waitress, my mother’s friend, Rebecca, brings us two more Cokes to go with our French dip sandwiches and fries. Klinger says, I get that we’re only sixteen, Heather, but I already know I want us to get married. I shouldn’t have told the guys. They’re all laughing at me. But I think they’re just jealous. I nod and say that I love him too, but my parents don’t believe me either. I tell him they’re always saying things like, oh Heather, there will be so many other boys and then men in your life. I roll my eyes. Klinger laughs that laugh I love so much.
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Then, I think it’s six years later, I see us at another table together. This is an old Danish Modern table in a one bedroom, cheap furnished apartment. I see us, then see him across from me again. He has just asked me to marry him, and I’ve said yes. It’s lowkey for us, because we always knew it would happen, but no one else got it. He puts a one carat pink diamond ring on my finger. The two of us are calm, smiling, but our poodle, Constance runs wild, excited circles around the table. We tell her to sit, stay quiet so our upstairs neighbors don’t complain.
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Another twelve years later, we’re walking, Klinger and I, on a woodland trail, and we discuss divorce. He tells me he’s fallen for my friend, Claire. He says he doesn’t know how or why, it just happened. I agree to an amicable divorce. We’ve had no children, though we tried for a long time. I am heartbroken. I’ll keep the house. He’ll move in with Claire and her twelve year old daughter, Chloe. I’ll keep our cats, Winston and James, with me.
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I feel a kiss on my right cheek, and another lightly on my lips. My face is wet with tears. I sit up, startled and profoundly sad. Where am I? What’s going on?
My eyes are open, but my vision is blurry because I’ve been sobbing in my sleep. Heather, sweetheart, what happened? asks my husband.
It takes me a minute to get my bearings, and Klinger wraps his arms tightly around me. I love you, Heather. You had a bad dream. Everything is good.
I suck in some deep breaths. And I say, I had more than one bad dream, I had a couple. In one, we were planning a divorce. In another I was dating Bentley, and he was a jerk, and I wanted to break it off. I must have been dating him because we went through with that divorce.
Klinger says, Bentley? Bentley Jones from MCI, class before ours? That jerk? Nightmare. No. We’re married, Heather, remember? You’re Heather Haley Harvey. Mrs. Klinger Hobson Harvey. Mrs. Klinger Hayden Hobson Harvey the Third. You’re the Love of My Life, all in caps. You’re…
I laugh. Okay, okay. I get it.
He laughs too. You’ve been Mrs. Harvey for twenty eight years, going on twenty nine. I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen and a half years old.
I say, all right, all right. I can’t stop laughing. And you know what else, Klinger? In one dream, Claire and Adele were my best friends. Can you imagine?
No, I can’t, he says. And didn’t I tell you, sweetheart? I heard last week that Adele married Bentley. She’s Mrs. Bentley Jones. The two of them have moved to Des Moines. I say, good riddance.
Adele and Bentley? I laugh harder. My stomach starts to hurt.
Yes. And i heard she married him in the tiniest black velvet dress you’ve ever seen!
I peek under my quilt and see I’m wearing faded jeans and a favorite blue tee shirt. What a relief. No teensy black dress for me. I’ll tell Klinger more about my dreams over supper.
On the way to the kitchen, I say to Klinger, remember when Adele and Claire were my rivals for your affections?
And he answers, they never had a chance. You’re the only one I ever wanted. Now let’s eat.
I admire the dress I was supposed to wear. It’s pink, the palest blush pink I’ve ever seen. I’ve never been a fan of pink; pink in any shade, from shell to fuschia. Nor have I ever been a fan of tulle and ruffles.This dress is the blushiest pink tulle with rose and cosmos embroidered in the most delicate pink and silver silk thread. And it’s a bridesmaid’s dress. That’s right, a bridesmaid’s dress. Where can I wear it now? Grocery shopping? Breakfast at Pettigrew Terrace Diner? To my job as a Receptionist at Beaver Creek Auto Insurance? No. I can never wear it. I’ll let it hang in my closet. The hope of wearing it someday might keep me from eating my beloved chicken and cheese enchiladas. So, moving on.
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My friend, Natalie called off her wedding the night before it was supposed to take place. She called me, then she called her mother. Mom, she said. The wedding is off. I’m moving to French Polynesia with my electrician, Justin. Justin Belliveau. We graduated together. 1995. Remember him, Mom? We went out twice. Once to a movie, and once to the Spring Dance. He broke up with me because I wouldn’t go all the way. Well, now I go all the way, and we’re in love. I’m sorry, Mom. Can you cancel everything? Find something to do with all the pink stuff? The flowers, my gown, the bridesmaids’ gifts? Everything? I called Nicholas myself, so you don’t have to do that. I thought I should at least do that much. Thanks. I’ll call when we get to Tahiti. Bye. Kiss kiss. We’ll send you plane tickets to visit us over the holidays!
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And that was that. I sigh; hang up the dress. I cut myself a good sized slice of the crescent moon cake I made. I made it to celebrate the fact that I’m single again, and because the waning crescent is my favorite phase of the moon. It’s chocolate with marshmallow frosting and pink sprinkles. The cake, not the waning crescent moon. Though I would so enjoy a moon that drips with chocolate ganache and has sprinkles. Anyway, I broke up with my ex, Gerard, the day after Natalie cancelled her nuptials. We were both bored. It was one of those things that was over before it was technically over. I only cried a little. More because it was a let down. A good night’s sleep is all it took to feel better. First thing I decided is that I’ll take a break from shaving for awhile. Pits and all. We women are too tied to all that shaving and plucking anyhow. And I might decide to not do it even when I meet someone new. So there. I smile to myself and invite my black kitty, Zorro up to the couch beside me. He’s seven years old; a senior cat, but he can still leap high with the best of them.
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I watch a video of The London Symphony Orchestra playing Camille Saint Saens’s The Bacchanale, from his opera, Samson and Delilah. It’s my very favorite piece of music. Both Zorro and I drift away to sleep. I dream a beautiful dream.
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At first absolutely everything is pink. It’s a nightmare. Like the John D. MacDonald novel, Nightmare In Pink. No other color. How many shades of pink are there? But then, there’s no pink. Everything is black and white. An old noir movie. Much better. It’s as if I’m Lauren Bacall, and my current crush, Bacchus Bonneville is Humphrey Bogart. We’re in a tropical place, but it’s not Key Largo. Is it Tahiti? Yes, I think it is. Bacchus and I are visiting Natalie and Justin in their new home. It’s 1940, and Natalie and I are classy dames in vivid red lipstick and black dresses. Okay, that’s quite sexist, but it’s a dream, and I can’t help it. There are many martinis, and there’s a murder. No, two murders. Okay, I said it was a beautiful dream. It’s not, but it is an adventurous, exciting dream. And there’s a figurine. It’s not a Maltese Falcon, but a one foot tall ceramic chickadee. It’s adorable, but also supposedly deadly, and someone’s killing for it. I know how to shoot a gun. (When I’m awake, I have no idea how to shoot a gun.) The chickadee contains, again, supposedly, a cache of uncut rubies. In the end, it turns out the butler did it. (I didn’t say it’s a well written dream, did I?) The butler committed both murders and stole the chickadee for nothing. And smashed it. Again, for nothing. All it contained was a little red velvet sack of red plastic beads. Also in the end, red was the only color in the movie/dream.
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When I wake up, I decide to sell the pink dress on Greg’s List. I’ll buy a black velvet gown and a new tube of passion red lipstick. I’ve hitherto only worn pale pink. But black is more fun. I swear I see Zorro wink at me. I’ve always known he can read minds.
Monday morning, there’s a jaguar on my patio. She feasts on a doe. But jaguars don’t live here. Deer, though, do. It’s a blue sky day, but it snows, lightly. I brew my morning coffee, toast two slices of rye, and she stops eating; watches me, makes no move for the sliding glass doors. She lounges. I spread blackberry jam on my toast. I eat. I drink two cups. She still watches me. She’s wary.
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I sit on my living room couch. Red velvet. Maybe I should invite her in. There’s plenty of room for her to rest. She sleeps on the other end of the patio from where she ate. The deer’s bones are licked clean. Not a scrap of meat remains. She was meticulous. No wonder she naps. I scroll twitter, news sites. I’m in a down mood. I watch her. She knows I watch and opens one eye. She closes it again. She’s still, but I’m antsy. What to do? I fidget, can’t stop watching her.
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It’s afternoon. I went out for a few groceries around noon. When I came home she was gone. Two hours have passed. Still, she’s gone. I wonder if she’ll come back. Then I wonder if she was really there. The deer’s bones are also gone. I fold some clean laundry in my bedroom. I hope she comes back, I think. I mean, if she was ever there in the first place. Did it really snow? It’s June, and this is New Jersey.
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I’m back on my couch. I long for a smoke, but I’m trying to quit. I only have two cigarettes left. I hid them on myself. So silly. I pick up my book. I’m reading Lee Child. The Hard Way. Nonstop action. I used to think I’d like to marry someone like him. But he’d make a terrible husband. Always on the road. He’d never call. I’ve never been married. You can probably tell. I’m thirty seven, happy by myself. Or at least I’m happy most of the time.
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I can’t get into this book. I keep looking up to see if the big cat has come back. I’m tempted to name her if she does. But she doesn’t belong to me, even if she comes back to stay. She belongs to no one. And this is the kind of jungle she isn’t used to. She might be homesick. I would be. I pick up my copy of Heart of Darkness, Conrad. Maybe it’ll be better. Sorry, Lee.
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It’s Monday, still, 8:15 pm. I’m on vacation, and have a date, but I cancel. Darrell is a good guy; a lot of fun, but I’m not in the mood. I say I’m not feeling well, but he knows that’s code for, I want to stay home and read with a couple of gin and tonics. Really, I’m waiting to see if Athena comes back. I haven’t named her, exactly. I just need to call her something besides The Cat. She likely won’t come back anyway.
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I finish my book, and I’m in bed by 10:30. It was snowing this morning, but now I need the air conditioner. It’s 83F outside, but oh so humid. I sleep soundly, and when I wake up, I go out to my living room, and she’s out there. On my patio with another deer. This one’s a little bigger. She’s about half done, and I can tell she’ll save none for later. She’ll eat her fill, then I’ll invite her in. What does one offer a jaguar? A place to relax and be herself?
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I make myself a bacon and cheese omelet, sourdough toast, and I drink three cups of coffee. I feel like celebrating. I don’t worry that I might be hallucinating. Maybe I’ll call Darrell and invite him over. I did tell him I was thinking about adopting a cat.
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But when I finish my breakfast, I look out and see that she’s gone, and so, I see, are her leftovers. Maybe she went back to her real home, though she would have been welcome here. I’ve a feeling she won’t come back this time. I got to live kind of a fairy tale for a day or so though.
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Around 3 in the afternoon, I get a call from my friend, Alicia, who lives three blocks away. She says, Diane, guess what I saw in my backyard this morning?! You’ll never believe it!
And I say, oh Alicia, I might just believe you. **
Why can’t Kristen write? Why can’t she finish a book?
The words have either escaped her, or they are well hidden. Punctuation, the same.
Monday morning, some adverbs were rinsed down the drain when she scraped leftover egg yolk from her plate. They were adverbs, but still. Used sparingly in a story, they work well.
On Wednesday, a half a dozen adjectives were lost in a sock. Where did they go? Down the black hole in the dryer with who knows how many other socks and adjectives. No more detective with the tanned body; the muscular biceps, the firm gluteous maximus. He was her favorite character in a short story she’d started. And shy Suzette lost her lover.
And the cozy mystery she started to read on Saturday. She couldn’t finish it. All the descriptions of the desserts made her drool. And there went all the commas in her story. Saliva all over her pillow. (She was reading in bed.) Really, there were too many commas anyway, but that’s beside the point, right?
Kristen started reading an historical novel Thursday morning with her coffee and Danish. But, she became uncomfortable in the main character’s corset. (Kristen’s imagination is extreme. She really places herself in the story.) Now she knows when she writes her own novel, to set it in a different time. Maybe in the late 1960s? Mini skirts are very freeing, and all those vivid designs and colors. (If they don’t get lost also.)
That same Thursday, in the afternoon, she changed from her orange stilettos to her much more comfy red sneakers. When she took off the heels, the two semicolons, (one in each shoe,) jumped out and high tailed it down the hall, and hopped into her ficas tree. She can’t find them in the foliage. She never knew semicolons wear camo.
Kristen’s two favorite character names, Sylvia and Mortimer rebelled. Not enough love scenes for them in her novella. Secondary characters, Stephanie and Dillon get way more. How is that fair? What’s up with that? They absconded to the garden somewhere. Are they in the lupine? Maybe in the azaleas? Kristen’s too lazy to look. She’ll just have to come up with other names. Perhaps Gertrude and Gavin. Or could Gs be missing in action too? They only want roles in sci-fi?
Friday, Kristen put out a casting call for a sexy plumber type, (what that is, exactly, she’s not sure. She doesn’t want to be sexist.) All she asks is that they don’t show their cracks when they bend over to look under the sink. Alas, no one showed up. Her imagination was bereft. Maybe the hopefuls heard she had cabbage, beet, and broccoli salad for lunch?
One of Kristen’s favorite words is eviscerate. She found it in her chocolate stash on Tuesday. But what should she eviscerate in her poem? It’s a love sonnet. What is eviscerated in a love poem? That’s just a depressing thought.
There are many reasons why Kristen is unable to find the words, for either reading or writing. Or are they merely excuses? Likely the latter.
Maybe the words are in a little cabin on the coast, or a little motel in the sticks? Maybe she just needs to rent a room. Somewhere quiet, out of the way. Maybe take her vintage typewriter that’s missing three letters. Well, they’re not missing, just worn off, faded. Maybe that’s a little progress? Just faded, not gone? Kristen’s hopeful.
There’s a little motel named Bates in a town called Waterville down the coast a piece. Bates. This must mean something. She’ll lock the bathroom door when she takes a shower. Maybe put a chair under the knob. Kristen rents room 5 for two days and nights. Fifty dollars a night. Cash only. According to the receptionist, the room is decorated in burnt umber and avocado green. She thinks maybe this atmosphere will spur her imagination. She’ll set her story in 1975. She’ll wear her polyester blouse, bell bottom jeans, part her hair in the middle. And she won’t forget two packs of Marlboros and a lot of Boone’s Farm Wild Irish Rose. Do they still make Wild Irish Rose? If not, some cheap whisky. She’ll rent a Gran Torino if she can find one, or a 70s VW Beetle. Wish Kristen luck!
This is contented Snickers. She doesn’t care about finding words. She as zen as they come. 🙂
Rebellious Hazelnuts 