by Peggy Webb
“Mom…you sound so serious.” Jen laughs. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know, honey.”
If I thought she couldn’t I wouldn’t be leaving, not even to hole up in a motel for a few days, lick my wounds, then crawl back chastened and contrite.
After I hang up, I start to dial Kate but put the receiver back down. The thought of leaving the sweet, dimpled arms of my three-year-old granddaughter, Bonnie, chokes me up. We see each other every week, and between times we talk on the phone. The last time we spoke she told me, “Nana, I love you more than bacon.” Bonnie’s favorite food is bacon, so that puts me high on the hog.
I don’t know how I can leave her.
And maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I’m a foolish older woman with hormones run amok. Maybe I’m expecting Rachmaninoff’s Prelude, opus 3 when I ought to settle for “The Old Gray Mare.”
It’s not that I’m not grateful for what I have. I am. But is it wrong to want more, to long for joie de vivre?
Now I understand why Aunt Bonnie Kathleen lived in one place all her life and never even changed the color of her bedspread. Green. When the old one wore out she bought another one exactly like it.
Change is wrenching. Especially for the timid.
I close my eyes, try to imagine the woodwinds in Sinding’s “Rustles of Spring,” the piano in Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. But nothing’s there. How can you pour love and music out of an empty shell?
Don’t I owe it to my family as well as to myself to be the best woman I can be, to be somebody they can look up to?
I grab a pad and pencil before I can change my mind.
Dear Howard,
I need some time away, so I’m leaving for a while and don’t know when I’ll be back. Please don’t try to find me. I’ll call to let you know I’m safe when I get where I’m going.
Don’t forget to feed the dog. Don’t buy that cheap dog food that comes in chunks because Rufus won’t eat that. You have to buy the kind that comes in little pieces the size of miniature shredded wheat. I can’t think of the brand… And don’t wait till evening to feed Rufus because then he won’t sleep, and don’t forget to water the ferns…
Seeing the long list of minutiae that makes up my day, I suddenly stop writing. Just stop.
I go into the bedroom suite I share with Howard, take down my suitcase and rifle through my ugly dresses, the kind women buy when they’re trying to hide their hips.
I slap the dresses, every one of them, then throw my empty suitcase onto the closet floor. I don’t want to take a single thing that reminds me of my current life. Next, I rummage on the top shelf till I find what I’m looking for—my long-neglected symphony, the edges of the box crumpled by the weight of winter blankets. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I lift the lid and stare at the title—Soaring.
Can I? Do I still have wings?
I stuff the unfinished symphony into a tote bag with my underwear and toothbrush, then grab my purse and walk out, stopping only long enough to write a different note to Howard.
I’m leaving for a while. I’ll call and explain later. Feed the dog.
Let him figure out the rest for himself.
Although it’s already 2:00 p.m., I say goodbye to Rufus, tell him Howard’s in charge but not to forget how to use the doggie door and the automatic food dispenser; then I get in my silver Cadillac Seville and drive off anyway. Now that my decision is made, I can’t stand to spend another night in this empty house.
I honk the horn when I pass Jane’s, knowing full well she won’t peer out the window or come to the door and wave me off. She hates goodbyes. Right now she’s probably curled into her yellow chintz chaise longue in her sunroom with her head buried in a book so she won’t see my car cruising down the street.
Truth to tell, I hate goodbyes, too. I wish I had not honked the horn, but there’s no way to take it back.
Instead of wasting time on useless regret, I pick up the phone to dial Kate, but break out in a sweat at the thought of telling her. I’ve never known what to say to her, even when she was three years old. She’s just like Howard—cool, self-possessed, completely in charge of her emotions and never needy.
Jane says Kate was born old, but I think I simply abdicated motherhood when she was born. Not that I didn’t love her, but I thought Howard knew more about parenthood than I did, and so I sat back and let him take over with Kate.
He’d had two loving, well-adjusted parents and I’d been brought up by a woman whose idea of childhood was “mind your manners, keep your dress clean and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”
Aunt Bonnie Kathleen swore by the TV show Father Knows Best, starring Jane Wyatt and Robert Young, and I grew up thinking the key to happiness was having a man on the premises. She could have swapped places with Jane Wyatt’s character and nobody would have noticed the difference. Since my father didn’t live in our household, nobody knew best and my aunt and I just muddled along until I finally found a hero who would take care of both of us.
That would be Howard, who has lately lost his shine.
Kate’s house comes into view, and I park under the shade of a big blackjack oak then sit in the car feeling inadequate and guilty. Aunt Bonnie Kathleen molded me in the Jane Wyatt tradition and I sat around, mealymouthed, while Howard did the same thing to this daughter of mine.
And look how all that turned out—me running away, and Kate married to another Robert Young TV character, who is at this very moment on the golf green hitting little balls into holes while my daughter is in the kitchen. Barefoot and pregnant, but for the grace of modern contraception.
I know this because it’s a Sunday afternoon ritual. The only thing that changes is the recipe. While Rick golfs, Kate gets out plastic bowls and a big wooden spoon so Bonnie can “cook” without fear of hurting herself.
I’m still in the car getting up my courage when my precocious granddaughter bursts through the front door with chocolate smears on her face, and Doggie, her favorite plush animal, squeezed under her arm.
“Nana’s here, Nana’s here!” Bonnie races down the sidewalk, leaps into my arms and covers my face with gooey kisses.
“That’s some mighty sweet kisses, angel baby. Can I have about a million?”
How can I possibly leave? What in the world was I thinking? Jenny has an independent streak a mile wide and doesn’t need anybody and all Howard needs is three square meals and the evening news, but Bonnie needs me.
She giggles then wiggles down to race back into the kitchen where she jabs her fingers into the dough.
“Want some, Nana?” She holds a sticky finger out to me, and while I nibble the raw dough, Kate leans over and pecks me on the cheek.
“It’s so good to see you, Mom.”
“You, too.”
I give her a reciprocal peck, feeling like a fraud. How did this happen? Was I too busy making sure Howard didn’t turn Jenny into Father Knows Best and June Cleaver clones to bridge this gap between my older daughter and me?
“You want some coffee? I’ve made a fresh pot.” Kate buys gourmet coffee—the kind you grind—and serves it in china cups with real cream.
“I could use a cup of good, stout Folgers.”
Kate gives me a look. “It’s Southern pecan, but I can run down to the store and get Folgers if that’s what you want.”
“For Pete’s sake, Kate. Why don’t you just tell me to shut up and drink what you’ve got?”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing, and that’s part of the trouble.”
“Mother!”
Kate always calls me Mother when she disapproves of me, which is every Sunday, most holidays and any given weekday. Who can blame her? I failed her. Big-time.
Now would be a perfect time to clear the air, tell a few truths, but we Holt women have a long history of keeping silent. And when the air gets too rancid to breathe, we just start looking for a gas mask.
“Southern pecan is fine,” I say, tak
ing the easy way out.
“Good.”
Kate pours a cup, and we both settle into a familiar pattern with relief. I hold on to the china cup while my daughter talks about the preschool she’s selected for Bonnie to attend in the fall, the Christmas charity ball she’s chairing this year, the new pool she and Rick are planning to build.
If I vanished off the face of the Earth in the next two minutes, Kate would still carry on in beautiful style.
Which is a very good thing. Still…being needed is lovely and comforting.
“Nana.” Bonnie climbs into my lap. “Will ’ou sing wif me?”
“Certainly, sweet pea.”
She launches into an exuberant, baby-voiced rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” and while I sing along I wonder if she’ll always be joyful or if she’ll lose the spark, learn to settle, turn into Jane Wyatt.
A fierce courage overtakes me, and suddenly I know that whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, my granddaughter will always be able to say, Nana never settled.
“Kate…I’m…” Leaving sounds too harsh, too final. Impossible to explain over a cup of coffee. I don’t even know whether it’s the right word. Not really. “Going on an extended vacation.”
“Without Dad?”
“He’s too busy to get away.” There I go again, beating around the bush. But in my defense, this is not a full-blown lie.
“Just what does an extended vacation mean, Mom?”
I should have known Kate would see right through me. Not only does she have Howard’s big brown eyes that narrow at the first hint of suspicion, she also has his radarlike mind.
“You know how tired I’ve been from five years of going from one end of the state to the other to take care of Aunt Bonnie Kathleen.”
“You didn’t answer my question.” She’s staring at me through slits now. “Where are you going all of a sudden? Why couldn’t you tell us about this last Wednesday night when we all went out for dinner?”
I breathe deeply, hoping to work up courage for a real soul-baring session, but all I get is a big whiff of Kate’s magnolia-scented potpourri that makes me sneeze.
“You’ve been living with a trial lawyer too long.”
I try for the light touch, but fail miserably, mainly because Bonnie is tilting her head, beaming her big smile at me.
“Can I go on bacation wif ’ou, Nana?”
I squeeze my coffee cup and blink hard. I should have taken the coward’s way out; I should have said goodbye on the phone.
I squeeze her tight, then set her on the floor and grab my purse. “Not this time, sweet baby. See you later, alligator.”
“Af’er while, c’ocodile.”
“Mom?” Kate follows me to the door, tall and elegant, even in jeans, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She could be a young Audrey Hepburn if she had a gamine’s smile instead of Howard’s serious look. “What in the world’s going on?”
“I have to go, Kate. I’ll call you.”
I barrel through the door without looking back. Bonnie’s calling, “Bye-bye,” and I know her little hand is waving in the air. If I look back I’ll turn to a pillar of salt. At the very least.
Maybe I will anyway. The tears that blind me and drip into the corners of my mouth taste salty. I’m a foolish old wreck. Fumbling with the car keys and a tissue at the same time, I’m finally able to drive down the street.
There was never a question about the direction I’ll go. I turn south toward the Gulf, south toward the clean, hopeful expanse of sea. But not south toward the Mississippi Gulf Coast where I was born. I have too many relatives there, too many nosy cousins on Mother’s side of the family who would wonder why I’d come, how long I was going to stay and why Howard was not with me.
Instead I head a bit eastward toward Alabama, aiming to travel back roads all the way to Pensacola, Florida. This destination feels right, partially, I think, because one of the last good memories of Howard is the vacation we took six years ago where we did nothing but read, eat great seafood and comb the beaches for sand dollars. Once, in a fit of wine-fueled ecstasy, we even made love in the afternoon. Something we hadn’t done since the early days of our marriage. It was so unexpected that it’s forever engraved in my mind.
By the time I get to Columbus, sixty miles down the road, I’m starving. Traveling always makes me hungry. I’ve never been on a road trip—nor an air trip, either—where I didn’t pack a snack bag.
When I pull into Little Dooey’s for barbecue, I wish I were driving something besides a Cadillac. Beside all the Jeep Wranglers and pickups and low-slung Mazdas with spinner hubcaps, my Cadillac looks like an old lady’s car. I console myself by ordering an extralarge portion of pulled pork, but then realize that’s exactly something dowdy, over-weight Elizabeth Martin would do.
I switch to a smaller order; Beth Holt Martin, a woman not only rediscovering herself but also trying to locate her hip bones.
After I eat I still have hours to go before sunset, but I’ll be traveling sparsely populated countryside, so I consult my road maps to be certain I can make it to Demopolis, Alabama before dark. It’s the only city on my route big enough to have a motel.
By the time I get there, Howard will be home. I picture how he’ll react when he sees my note on the kitchen table. He’ll read it, then set his suitcase down and read it again in case he missed some nuance the first time around. Next he’ll fold it into precise thirds, put it in his pocket and walk through the house to see what’s missing. He’ll check my closet and decide that whatever wild hare I’m chasing will soon wear itself out because every garment I own is still hanging there.
Then he’ll order take-out Chinese and watch the evening news before he calls me on my cell phone. This methodical, steady behavior makes him the man you want to have around in a crisis. Unless it’s a crisis of the heart, the spirit.
What I really want is for him to jerk up his phone and yell, “Elizabeth, come home! I can’t live without you!”
Passion, that’s what I want. Blazing comets and Fourth of July parades and Christmas lights all rolled into one. And not just passion in the bedroom…though certainly that’s a huge chunk of it. I want to live fully, to embrace life with arms and heart and mind wide-open.
This is more than a road trip; it’s a long journey to discover who I am and who I want to be.
By the time I cross the Black Warrior River into Demopolis, the sun is setting. Nothing is more spectacular than sunset and sunrise reflected in water. If I had thought to call ahead I might have been able to rent a little cabin on the river where I could spend the rest of the evening watching the drama of the heavens—sunset painting rainbows on the water followed by a full moon and stars so bright they seem to explode in the night sky.
Instead I take a room at the Holiday Inn and call Howard rather than waiting for him to call me.
“Elizabeth, where the devil are you?”
“I’m okay, Howard, and I’d rather not say.”
“Don’t you think you could have at least discussed this with me? My Lord, Elizabeth, you’ve run away like some hormone-fueled teenager.”
“I’m not running away, Howard. I’m an adult driving my own car.”
He sighs, and I picture him sinking into his recliner, running his hands over his receding hairline, adjusting his glasses. Little things I used to find endearing. Now all they do is irritate me.
I wonder if this is merely a sign of creeping age, this impatience. Maybe I don’t need to run away. Maybe I just need a pill. A great, big be patient, this too shall pass pill.
Howard has never been at a loss for words, but the silence stretches on so long I realize I’ve finally rendered him speechless. I feel a tug of compassion, a pinch of guilt, more than a little urge to say, “Don’t worry, dear. Everything will be all right.”
Lord, I’m a head case. Hot one minute, cold the next. Will she run or will she stay? Will she keep going or will she tuck her tail and go home?
Maybe I belong on one of those talk shows, such as Dr. Phil.
“Listen, Howard. I just need some time to sort out a few things.”
“I thought that’s what you were doing in Huntsville.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Why can’t you do your sorting at home?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t, that’s all.”
“That’s just great, Elizabeth.”
Of course, he doesn’t mean great at all. What he means is that’s ridiculous, and all of sudden I remember our honeymoon, the way he looked at me when I waltzed out of the bathroom in my new white lace gown and negligee, the way his eyes got hot and my hands got sweaty. Back then I thought Howard would always look at me that way, as if I were queen of his universe. I thought I’d always be stirred by the sight of his crooked smile, his square hands with the sprinkling of dark hair along the tops and the thumbs that curved backward. Why his thumbs moved me is a complete mystery. And why they no longer have any effect at all is equally mysterious.
It’s my turn to sigh.
“Howard, the girls both know. They’re fine with this.”
“You discussed this with our daughters and didn’t even bother to tell me?”
If voices were places, Howard’s would be the tundra. Frostiness is not new to us, though. Usually at this point I wheedle and placate and he forgives me and we climb into the same bed where he pecks me on the cheek and then rolls over so no part of his body touches mine.
Thank God I don’t have to lie on my side of the bed tonight, being careful not even to brush my feet against his while the rest of me burns with a lust that would be the envy of sixteen-year-olds. One of the ironies of life is that when men are in their prime, women don’t know diddly-squat about intimacy, and when women enter their prime, men are either tapering off or searching for Viagra.
“Listen, Howard, I don’t know when I’ll be back.” I don’t even know if I’ll go back at all. That’s one of the things I have to find out. “Don’t try to find me. And call only in case of emergency.”
“Define emergency, Elizabeth.”
