Maybe Someday

by Ede Clarke

  “The smell was strong before we even had the boat on the sand. The man took a thin rag, dipped it into the sea water, slightly rung it out, then wound it tighter and tighter and wrapped it around his boy’s face so it laid beneath his nose. The boy nodded in appreciation.”

  “Could you stand it?”

  “Yea. What I saw and what I smelled was competing so I didn’t have any one reflex to fix onto. I just couldn’t believe that a few months later most of the devastation was still there.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. It was shocking, Patty. I still don’t know why only a few workers were there. There was a sign at the water on a concrete wall that said if you want to help to go to a place where some bar used to be. So I walked down the way and found a few folks. They were kids—college age—and one was ‘in charge.’ There was no organization there. Just kids from all over—one from Canada, one from Germany, one from Australia . . . ”

  “None from the U.S.?”

  “None, except me and I could barely handle it. And, I was there for a few hours one day. They were there for a few days or weeks. That girl who was the leader of the clean up effort had been there eight days and would be leaving in a few more. She said whoever wanted to be the leader next she would tell them a few things like where the found glass goes, where the heavy things go, and also where the remains go.”

  “Really?”

  “Yea. We dug and dug and dug and it was just filled with the lives of people. Pictures. A toothbrush. Jewelry. A bra. Playing cards. A pen. Then we put things into piles. There was a small flat barge on the other side of the island that took the debris. But the bulldozer was over there, too—only one small one by the way, and it couldn’t even begin to get through it all. So, these kids were digging from this end and making piles.”

  “What about the man and his son . . . from the boat?”

  “They waited on the shore. I only had about four or five hours since we had to leave while we would still have high tide to get back in.”

  “And the heat?”

  “That is what killed me. They had bottled water, but I hated to drink it because there were still locals there, Patty. They didn’t have the means to get off the island so they were wandering through this mess with shredded clothes, again no shoes, and how could you not give them any bit of water you had?!”

  I shrink back into the couch, I’m sure subconsciously hoping the couch would hug me, surround me with something to take the ache away. Then I felt selfish.

  “When the sun got me, I ventured in off of the beach a bit. Then I started encountering some of the shop owners trying to piece something together and get back up and running. Honestly, it was almost laughable to stand in a building that had only one concrete wall up and have a conversation with a dive shop owner from Australia telling me I could help him and thank you and could I paint that wall for him and here is the paint.”

  “You painted it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “His family?”

  “His wife had gone into Phukett for the day to get supplies. So, she was spared. He was at the shop and someone pulled him up onto the roof of a nearby concrete building. Only the concrete walls remained. Walls, and everything else ended up in a heap, or I should say hundreds of heaps. I also met a man who had worked at a restaurant ‘across the street’ from that dive shop. He was the only one of all the people who worked at that restaurant who survived. He had not left the island. He did not know what else to do but stay. He has never known anything else.”

  My eyes were closing on their own at this point, nothing I could do. “Let’s get you upstairs,” Candy grabbed my arm and I followed.

  As we climbed toward sleep I asked her, “Then you went back to the resort?”

  “Yes.”

  “How weird was that?”

  “Highly uncomfortable. Still haven’t gotten over that.”

  “I would think so.”

  “Yea.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?” I ask Mad over the phone.

  “I’m sure it’s him, Patty. You showed me a picture a while back and I could never forget that red hair.” There he was: Russ on the Internet. Mad has a friend whose girls are wanting to try soccer so they began and sent a picture to Auntie Madeleine.

  “He’s their coach?” I ask her.

  “No, he’s at a different school, but in the same city. He coaches the team to beat, so the girls sent this picture along so I’d know who they are gunning for.”

  “I didn’t know he was still in that area.” And then my mind closed with a finality of a slammed door with well-greased hinges. “Mad, is that a ring?” I asked not wanting the inevitable reply. “Looks like it, huh?” I kept staring at his hand down by his side. He looked bigger, thicker. It has been a few years. Plus, then it occurred to me, most men gain weight when they are newly married.

  “You okay?”

  “Oh, yea, that was ages ago. Funny how lives intersect like that.”

  “So, you’re wearing a wedding ring just as an experiment?” I asked Candy.

  “Yea. A bunch of friends at work swear that you’ll get a great guy interested in you if you’re married.”

  “And he knows you’re married?”

  “Or, thinks you are. Yea.”

  “Then he’s not a great guy!”

  “Well, you know what I mean. On paper he’s a catch.”

  “You are not actually going to do this?”

  “For two weeks.”

  “You know you can now never get mad at me again about Russ and my stupid stubbornness there. You know that doing this takes you down a notch? Right?”

  “Completely different because I don’t care about them.”

  “That is just worse. And, so unhealthy. It’s not a game you know?”

  “It can be.”

  “For how long?”

  “Apparently a really long time . . . We are approaching our thirties.”

  We both laughed and then it occurred to me that maybe Russ wasn’t really married. “Do you think guys do this experiment, too?”

  “Na. I think they do the reverse experiment of taking off their ring.” We both cringe in agreement. But the hope does linger . . . for a short moment.

  “Hi, Mad. How are you? Oh, I’m good. Good. Thanks . . . Yeah, The Five are good. It’s beautiful here with the leaves changing and we just went to the apple orchards last weekend to pick out a few bushels. Yeah, the girls are helping out with the canning now that they’re all old enough. So, how’s Erie Public? . . . Really? That is great. You needed that help years ago . . . Well, yeah. Actually, I was wondering if you remembered showing me that soccer picture a few years back of Russ, my friend from college? Yes . . . Yea . . . Well, I heard this story from Candy recently that some people wear rings as a joke to see what happens . . . Well, I know . . . Yes . . . Well, I . . . I just thought that maybe I could email him and see what he was up to . . . Oh you do?.. . . . That would be great . . . The Hurricanes? . . . Yes . . . Oh, sure . . . That’ll work . . . Thanks, Mad . . . Yeah . . . Give my love to everyone there . . . Okay . . . Thanks . . . Good-bye.

  “Mornin’,” Candy greeted me with a smile at the kitchen island without looking up and pointed toward the tea pot, “the water is already in the pot. Just turn it on.” She continued on with her paper reading.

  “Will you be home for dinner?” I asked while turning the burning to High.

  “Of course. I’ve cleared most meetings and appointments after 5:30 for the whole week.”

  I hugged her good morning at that and sat down on the stool across from her. “Then I’ll cook for us tonight,” I let out with a long, quiet yawn. “Should be home by 6:30.”

  The day went slowly, as I was neither home nor on vacation. I was followed at every step by the decisions that needed to be sorted to move ahead with Don. They were in a clump, behind me and they were dark, with an uneasy consistency. Why can’t I have one hour without this to think of? But, it nee
ded to be worked through. Why couldn’t I talk about it? Why couldn’t I think about it? The two week deadline was approaching fast, one day after I would return home from Candy’s. The sorting must be done here. Now. So, I sit with tea looking out the den window from the floor as I did the night before. I have pen and pad on the coffee table before me. Write something. Get to it. I write down, “Home,” “Stuff,” “Finances,” “Friends.” What to write under these headings? Tell them I’m outta here and am running off into the sunset. Yeah, that would go over well. Tell them I give them my home and stuff and am keeping my money and running off into the sunset. That might lighten the blow and help them give me the benefit of the doubt . . . Then a saving thought wafts in through that dear den window: Go shopping for food for dinner.

  “How was work?” I ask Candy as we sit across from a large salad with sliced glazed salmon, walnuts and cranberry sauce throughout for the dressing with flax and sesame seeds.

  “This smells wonderful! Work was . . . work. You remember, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I thought I’d ask and you could tell me and I’d feel smart because I don’t have it right now.”

  “Thinking of that, I have to ask. What is the plan, Stan?”

  I grab a piece of wheat nut bread and break off a smaller piece and put it in my mouth. “Good strategy, Candy.” I point to my mouth and raise my eyebrows like it just so happens I can’t quite answer that question now. So sorry.

  “Well, while you’re finishing your bite. I’ll tell you something. I thought of you when I was on Phi Phi. They usually have a woman there who is a Canadian. She’s there for like five months during the off season and then also a little bit into peak. She teaches the staff English. She had of course been let go because of the situation and everything. But I remember thinking she’s a bit like you because she’s also in her mid-thirties and is a free spirit—doing whatever and going wherever.”

  “Why?” I suddenly asked.

  “Why what?”

  “Why is she doing whatever and going wherever?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I suppose because she can.”

  “Is that responsible?”

  “Wait a minute. I thought she was like you and now you’re not only not identifying with her but you’re judging her?!”

  “No. No I’m not. I’m just asking a question. Well, a few questions I guess.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Is it okay if you’re single and in your mid-thirties to romp and play?”

  “Well, she’s working.”

  “Come on. Barely.”

  “She’s not exactly feeding the poor, but she is helping a poor nation’s work force.”

  “That was a reach.”

  “What? It was okay for you before because you were helping orphans. But, now that the orphans are gone you have to get a normal job?” The silence settled in because I couldn’t touch it. I couldn’t touch the word orphan and I couldn’t touch The Five. After a few seconds Patty offered, “Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to talk about them yet. Not well anyway.” That wasn’t really true though since I had talked to Don about them. But, it was different. That whole thing was like a dream.

  “Do you remember a few years ago when you got all those dates from wearing that stupid wedding ring?” I ask her.

  “That was so classic! I forgot all about that. What made you think of that?”

  “Well, I was thinking today about what is next? And I thought of before to see where I should go. And, I never told you this but right before you did that experiment, Mad found a picture of Russ on the Internet with his soccer team and he had a wedding ring on.”

  “Where is this going?”

  “Well, I figured that was it, you know? But, then you told me about your experiment . . . ”

  “And I also told you that I didn’t think guys did the experiment, didn’t I?”

  “Yes . . . ” She’s too smart. She already knows where this is headed. “So, I just shot off a quick email to him at his school saying hello and just seeing how he was.”

  She took a couple of bites and swigs and said nothing. Just waited. And so did I. And then stopped waiting. Finally. Forever. Once and for all. “That’s what it took?” she asks.

  “I guess so.”

  “Why? Why that after all these years? It’s sure not the first time he didn’t return a call. Or, in this case an email.”

  “I don’t know. I guess I finally don’t want him. That’s what it comes down to I guess. It’s not that I finally believe he won’t call me or want me. It’s that I finally don’t want him even if he does come.”

  “Really?”

  “Yea.”

  “Well, that only took like twelve years or something.” We both smile. “Let’s celebrate!” she hands me the salad bowl and we clear quickly and rinse the dishes.

  “Chocolate?” I ask.

  “Bigger I think.” We finish loading the dishes into the dishwasher.

  “What is bigger than chocolate?” I laugh with a wink.

  “For you? Chocolate with literature, my friend.”

  She sits me down on the chair she sat in the night before. I grab the throw and tuck in my legs as I accept a cup of tea and several truffles that I place on the small round statue table next to me. She disappears down the hallway as I take my first sip. I know I better drink quite a bit of it before my first truffle bite since the tea will have no taste after that treat. Half a cup down later she returns, gets settled onto the couch and begins with a great smile and a slightly affected voice, “He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish . . . ”

  The sentences spilled out of her with ease and interest, page after page. The chocolate seemed colder to my lips when hearing of the wind and sea, and warmer and richer when hearing of the shelter. It seemed more dear as the old man’s fish began to dwindle. And when the fish was gone completely, I was grateful I had already eaten the last of the three truffles, for I knew at that point I couldn’t have been that callous to him.

  “It’s late and I’ll leave you to turn off the lights.”

  With that she took my napkin and tea cup into the kitchen and disappeared again down the hallway with a last, “Good night,” with her back and hair to me.

  I wasn’t tired. I was so alive. I was alive, I was free. I was so free I was fearless. I was so fearless I didn’t need for anything. And because I didn’t need for anything I could have anything. More possibilities opened up and seemed less like a dream and more like reality. And I knew then, in that moment looking over my shoulder at the crisp bark on the tree outside of Candy’s den, that I could go or stay, work or play, share or withhold, and still be valid. If the choices are good, God makes good of anything we choose.

  Chapter Ten

  My wavy long hair is down-right curly in this heat. I twist it up and wrap it around and cover with a thin linen cloth. Will it be thick enough to protect my scalp? I can feel my part boiling through the vanilla cloth. Then a breeze that comes from the palm trees high and to my right eventually hits my head with a relief that gives me breath. “Yes, thank you,” I accept a small container of water from the boat company worker and poke the straw through the foil lid as I see the others doing. It is cold and I am grateful. The office is small and has posters of Phi Phi and Krabi and Phukett on the walls. The one wall’s posters are seriously faded. There are doors at both ends of the small shop, both open hoping for a cross breeze. We just entered through the door to the right, where that parking lot looks cool and shaded and dark, where the airport shuttle van just dropped us off. The door to the left, where I cannot help but look, opens us up to the small port filled with blazing boats struck with electric sun. My shades are on though I’m inside so I can look at the boats with the glare of Thailand bouncing off of each one and the water. It is alive with dance. Quiet with bees buzzing from orchid to jasmine and water lapping, gently
moving the boats. I place my empty water container in the very small trash can as I follow the other guests in front of me out of the shop and onto the boardwalk. My left foot steps out from under the shade as we begin to turn left heading toward our boat. The intense sun hits the open flesh on my left foot and I suddenly want my luggage back so I can grab my sunscreen. Who knew I’d need it on my feet?!

  After we board the open boat they let me grab the lotion since our luggage is right there with us. As I begin to lather it on I hand it to another guest as we both admire our uncharacteristically white skin in these parts. “We’re doomed, I’m afraid,” an Australian accent tells me as she returns the tube.

  “Yes, but I can’t help but love the water.”

  We all introduce ourselves as we get settled into our hour-long shuttle to the Phi Phi resort. “At least we know this is off season and the hottest it will be,” I tell the woman sitting next to me who is an oceanographer, coming to take pictures of a famous reef area near the resort where sharks seem to gather.

  “Yes, my dear. I wish the sharks would also gather in the winter here. But, they are twice as likely to come up to where we will be if it is summer. So here we are.” Glenda is an American, about sixty years old, who is a self-proclaimed lover of sharks and their souls. “Better than a husband because if I keep them fed they won’t hurt me.” She is dainty except around her middle, where there is a disproportionate ring so her clothes don’t quite fit right. I guess that is what we all look forward to, even if we keep thin.

  “Why that spot?” I ask her.

  “Oh, the reef is on the edge of an abyss that is hundreds of feet down. It is a sudden and sharp cut off. So the sharks come up through the abyss from the black into the blue and feed on the reef life and then can sneak back down to the black again in a synch. It’s a uniquely comfortable place for them.”