A Marriage Made at Woodstock

by Cathie Pelletier

  • • •

  Frederick was still tipsy from his first martini lunch when he arrived at Joyce’s house for dinner. He was wearing the one hundred percent cotton sweater Chandra had bought for him on his birthday, wool being on the outs. Joyce was still thirty pounds overweight, but she had Chandra’s same nose, same copper-colored eyes. Her husband, Reginald, was still dull. Yet they appeared genuinely glad to see him, Joyce giving him a quick kiss on the cheek and Reginald emphatically shaking his hand.

  “Martini,” Frederick said when Reginald gestured toward a small bar in the living room. He watched as Joyce fetched a platter of munchies, listened as Reginald shook ice in a pitcher. He felt immensely hypocritical. Hadn’t he helped Chandra lambaste Joyce and her husband for years, measuring one of their handicaps against another? Reginald, who taught high school history, was hard of hearing. Frederick had always assumed that years of listening to Joyce’s whine had eroded his brother-in-law’s eardrums. Eaten them away for good. The anvil, the hammer, the Eustachian tube, all turned to jelly under the bombardment of sound waves. Now Frederick was mildly embarrassed that he had ever thought ill of Joyce. After all, she had taken him in when his own wife didn’t seem to want him. He felt a comfort in being in Joyce’s home, that his presence there connected him in some psychic way to Chandra. Joyce was Chandra’s sister, would always be Chandra’s sister, forever linked. Frederick, on the other hand, might not always be her husband.

  As he waited for his drink, he mentally counted the Avon knickknacks which Joyce had tiered on a shelf over the sofa. In a mass-produced artwork next to the row of Avon treasures, some orphan-looking children, those little urchins with eyes like dark plums, stared at him judgmentally. They seemed to know that Chandra had dumped him.

  “Lorraine was always flighty,” Joyce said as she fixed herself a drink, something with butterscotch schnapps in it. Watching Joyce’s mouth move, heart-shaped and small, was like watching Chandra’s own. “I’ll be honest with you, Freddy. I’m really surprised that it lasted this long. Really surprised. And so is Reginald. Aren’t you, honey?”

  “WHAT’S THAT?” Reginald asked too loudly, as those with hearing problems often do. Joyce’s question had bounced him out of his torpor, however, and he handed Frederick a fresh martini. A shock of reddish-gray hair cascaded down over one of Reginald’s eyes, both of which sat behind silver-rimmed glasses. He reminded Frederick of some English gamekeeper who’d just come in from the weekly rabbit kill, a Mellors kind of chap, sniffing at Lady Chatterly’s hem, a little too close to nature for his own good.

  “Very surprised,” Joyce added.

  “Are you saying you think my marriage is over?” Frederick heard a distinct panic in his voice. He felt a wild terror rising in his chest. It would be so lovely just to see Chandra again, just to speak to her, touch her hair. This was cruel and unusual punishment, this abandonment, this hiding out, forcing him to seek companionship from Joyce and Reginald. Cruel and unusual. “There’s counseling, after all. And who understands counseling better than Chandra? Surely, you can’t think it’s over?” Joyce stared at him with intense interest, studying his face closely.

  “Are you suicidal?” she asked. “It’s okay to tell me.”

  A grass-green bird with a yellow head and bluish tail swooped into the living room in a burst of chirps and squawks, circled the ceiling once, and then was gone.

  “THERE GOES BUDGIE!” Reginald said.

  “Of course I’m not suicidal,” said Frederick. “I just don’t want a divorce.” He could feel sweat forming on his brow, his face flushing.

  “Well, I know you’re not stupid,” said Joyce. She was dipping a carrot into sour cream. “That’s why I assumed that you must be suicidal.”

  “CAN WE EAT?” Reginald asked. “LASAGNA, RIGHT?” Frederick promised himself that he would examine his own portion of lasagna carefully, just in case Budgie had been hit with a fit of diarrhea while airborne in the kitchen.

  “Joyce, this isn’t making me feel better,” he said. He longed to ask: Didn’t you invite me over here to make me feel BETTER, you insidious troll? He said nothing. His eyes had begun to burn.

  “VEGETARIAN LASAGNA?” Reginald wondered. Above his head, the plum eyes of the urchins seemed to be growing even sadder.

  “Yes, vegetarian, to accommodate Freddy’s lifestyle,” Joyce explained.

  “I really don’t think divorce is in the air at this point,” Frederick said, more to himself. Maybe Budgie was at least listening.

  “Horsefeathers,” said Joyce. She wagged a finger. “You’re going through denial, mister.” Frederick tried to smile, then realized that it probably came off more like a tic. What was he doing in this abominable house? With this deaf man and this insufferable woman. He hoped Chandra was satisfied.

  “TIANANMEN SQUARE WAS A NASTY MESS, WASN’T IT?” Reginald said, as Joyce ushered them all into the dining room. English ivy seemed to be rampant. It curled about door casings, wound around lamps, encircled picture frames. It was like being in an immense terrarium. Any day now and the family would need machetes just to find the table. Joyce shuffled Frederick over to a chair next to a sullen young man. He had met Joyce’s two sons before, at those demented family holidays, and remembered them only as rude lumps.

  “We’re getting Bobo a toy poodle,” Joyce said as they sat down. “For company,” she added.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Bobo.” Frederick nodded at the boy. Joyce laughed. Even Reginald heard well enough to appear entertained. Something rustled in the ivy. Budgie.

  “And you say that my generation is dumb,” the young man said to Joyce. He shook his head in disgust. “Freakin’ incredible,” he added.

  “Bobo’s our cat,” Joyce said. Frederick heard Budgie give a low squawk.

  “I see,” he said. He finished the martini and nodded appreciatively as Reginald poured more from the pitcher. Joyce rattled ice in her glass, swirling it around. Directly above her head a huge pot of ivy cascaded down in long strands. From her position beneath the plant, Joyce had a massive head of ivy-green hair, all the leaves neat as curls. She crunched an ice cube.

  “Please don’t do that,” said the young man. Surely this was one of the cretin sons, but which one? He looked at Frederick again, still with disgust. “Freakin’ incredible,” he said again.

  “You do remember Teddy?” Joyce asked.

  Condom Boy? Frederick wondered. He held his hand out to Teddy, who ignored it.

  “We invited Robert to dinner, too,” said Joyce. “But he’s at that age where he doesn’t want to eat with us anymore.” She shoved a dish of lasagna toward Frederick and he helped himself to a couple clumps of it. He was careful to inspect the bits of black olive in case they were Budgie droppings. As he was about to fit a bite of salad onto his fork, something came rattling down the long table toward him. Frederick jumped. His first reaction was that Bobo the cat had gone berserk. What cat wants a poodle? The commotion stopped and Frederick saw before him a miniature Conestoga wagon, laden with garlic bread.

  “Reginald’s class is studying about the pioneers,” said Joyce. Frederick stared at the loaf of French bread that protruded three inches from the wagon’s back flap.

  “I MAKE HISTORY COME ALIVE,” Reginald said, and grinned.

  “Right,” said Teddy. “That was some trouble the pioneers had crossing the Garlic Bread Trail.” He tore a chunk of bread from the loaf. “And they think my generation is dumb.”

  “THOSE WAGONS WERE SOMETHING,” Reginald was now saying. “LOOK AT THOSE WHEELS. THEY’D NEVER SINK IN MUD. AND THAT CURVED FLOOR INSIDE KEPT THE CARGO FROM SLIDING AROUND.” Frederick felt as though he were sitting next to an immense helicopter, its blades rotating thunderously.

  “Oh thank God,” said Teddy. “The bread will be safe.” He burped. This seemed to excite Budgie, who shuffled out of the ivy and lit with a small bounce
on Teddy’s shoulder.

  “I hope you don’t mind pets,” Joyce said to Frederick.

  “THEY COULD HAUL UP TO SIX TONS,” Reginald added. “SOMEONE SHOULD BRING THE CONESTOGA BACK, AND YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST.” He tapped the table dramatically. Budgie did a quick little dance up into the air, then resettled on Teddy’s shoulder. “WHEN WE’VE DEPLETED OUR NATURAL RESOURCES AND COMPLETELY RUINED THE OZONE, WATCH WHAT’S GONNA HAPPEN IN A BIG WAY. CONESTOGAS.”

  “Freakin’ incredible,” Teddy said. He pulled another chunk off the garlic bread log. Reginald gave the Conestoga a push. It rolled over to Teddy’s plate and bumped to a stop against it.

  “HERE, SON,” said Reginald. “IT’S NOT POLITE TO REACH.” Teddy stood up so quickly that his chair rocked behind him. Budgie retreated to the ivy jungle.

  “Where are you going?” Joyce asked. She turned her head, but the enormous green wig held fast.

  “Out to deplete our natural resources and ruin the ozone,” Teddy answered over his shoulder. “I’ll try to have the buckboard back at midnight.”

  “NO, SON,” Reginald protested. “THE BUCKBOARD IS A WHOLE DIFFERENT ANIMAL.” Frederick listened as the back door slammed abruptly and then all was quiet in the kitchen. “MORE BREAD?” Reginald gave the miniature wagon another push. It came rolling toward Frederick in an aroma of fresh bread, instead of the brown dust of the Oregon Trail. The Donner party would have loved this Conestoga. He tried not to think of Chandra, of how the two of them had stopped accepting dinner invitations from Joyce. He wondered if Reginald knew that he made dinner come alive, instead of history. He thought about Teddy, out depleting and ruining virgins, of the soggy condoms that were probably above Frederick’s head at that very moment, fermenting, rooting in the darkness of some dresser drawer. Unless Reginald had stowed them in the Conestoga. With the curved floor, they wouldn’t slide about.

  “Bobo has a urinary tract infection,” Joyce said now. “He has to take a great big pill every day for a month. Don’t ooh, sweet-ums?” she asked a chair over by the window. Frederick followed her gaze and was surprised to see a very large cat, its eyes stonily yellow, staring at him from atop a throw pillow. No wonder his nose had been tickling fiendishly. He had thought for one wild moment that he might be allergic to Teddy. Or he had caught Parrot’s Fever from Budgie.

  “THE CONESTOGA GAVE BIRTH TO THE PRAIRIE SCHOONER,” Reginald said. “BUT THE BUCKBOARD, WELL, THAT’S A WHOLE NEW BALL GAME.”

  Frederick wished Chandra could see him now, wished she could witness this final decline, wished Reginald could make the future come to life. His eyes watered and the end of his nose vibrated. He nodded thankfully as Reginald poured more drink from the martini pitcher. He was now forced to admit that Joyce was right. He was smack dab in a big pond of denial. His future held many dinners with Joyce and Reginald and Teddy and Bobo. He would probably end up godfather to the toy poodle. A pretend uncle. In a short time, Budgie would roost on his head. Frederick Stone’s future was dead, and he had as much chance for a comeback as did the mighty Conestoga.

  Six

  Beneath your perfume and makeup

  You’re just a baby in disguise…

  So hurry home to your mama

  I’m sure she wonders where you are…

  Better run, girl,

  You’re much too young, girl.

  —Gary Puckett & the Union Gap

  It was a week after Chandra’s departure that Frederick spotted the red Toyota. He was making a right turn on Harrison Street when he saw her zoom by, her hair in a ponytail. He hit his brake pedal and made a quick turn. If he could follow her, maybe he could find out where she was living, even talk a bit of sense into her. He felt muscles tighten in his stomach. His heart was racing. Jesus, but he had thought this kind of emotional stuff would be over after he turned thirty. Certainly by forty. He pulled back onto Harrison in time to see the Toyota zooming through the next set of lights, which were yellow. He felt a flash of anger. How many times had he told her not to do that? How often had he reminded her of the danger? The traffic light flashed red just as Frederick pulled up to it. He could run it, couldn’t he? Traffic was mild. There was even a space coming up behind a florist truck. He watched the disappearing Toyota as it grew smaller, careening down the street away from him, toward new events that were taking place in his wife’s life, events he knew nothing of, events that excluded him. He could rush through the red light in time to catch her. There was no police car lurking about. But Frederick sat meekly before the round red eye of authority, and waited. He hated himself, but he waited. By the time the light flashed green, telling the wimps of the world that they could proceed like orderly sheep, he had no chance at all of catching Chandra. She had probably run the next yellow light, too. “But, Freddy, it’s the chicken light,” she had always protested after each of his traffic lectures. “If you don’t run it, you’re yellow.”

  Frederick Stone pulled into a 7-Eleven and went inside for a cup of coffee. He needed something to settle the cloud of distress that had formed in his stomach. He made sure to take the largest Styrofoam cup the establishment had to offer, a little protest of his own. The door to the 7-Eleven had barely closed behind him when he glanced up to see the red Toyota on its way back down the street! He watched as Chandra braked at the four-way stop. He could even see the brownish-blond of the bouncy ponytail and hear music coming from the radio. This was as close as he’d been to his wife in a week. He tossed his coffee into a trash barrel by the gas pumps and bolted for his car. He heard Chandra’s tires squeal as the Toyota launched out again. He did his own squealing as he pulled out into the street. He only slowed for the four-way stop. He hated himself for doing this. It wasn’t his turn, but there was a clear, safe opening. He barreled on through only to hear two horns blast their annoyance. He wished he could stop and explain, but there was no time for that. He could still see the ass end of the Toyota as it rolled up to a red light farther down the street. He had a perfect opportunity to pull up behind Chandra until a Domino’s Pizza truck shot out of its home office and into the street in front of him. The colorful sign on top was lighted. Frederick hit his brakes and jerked up behind the pickup.

  “Little bastard,” he said, and honked his horn. He saw the driver hoist his middle finger up in the rearview mirror. This was the language of today’s generation, invented by Frederick’s generation. Only, it had meant something in the sixties. It had meant more than what it meant now. Holding one’s middle finger up at the president of some university had meant entire sentences, paragraphs, pages, books. It meant “Your policy is unconstitutional. Racial segregation is matriculating here. Sexual discrimination is rampant. This university is investing in companies that in turn supply the war in Southeast Asia.” Holding up one’s middle finger in the sixties could be exhaustive. Now all it meant was “Get the fuck out of my way, mister. I got to get this pizza to Bubba within thirty minutes.” Frederick thought of Chandra’s presence just ahead of him and floored the accelerator pedal. The nose of his car came to within a foot of the pickup’s bumper and held fast, like one dog sniffing another, a desperate play for dominance as he and the Domino’s Pizza boy tore down Harrison Street. Through the windshield of the pickup before him, he could see Chandra’s Toyota run the yellow light, the very one she’d ignored on her maiden voyage. He dropped back to a few feet behind the pickup, anticipating the idiot in front of him. Would he stop for the light? Probably not. Not with a brain operating on automatic pilot for another ten years. Frederick guessed right, because the pizza truck passed through the intersection just as the light flicked from yellow to red. Now Frederick himself had two or three seconds to decide. He hit the gas pedal and ran the red light. It was the Frederick of the sixties, the man Chandra had met at Woodstock and fallen in love with. If only she could see him now. When he reached her, when he caught the Toyota, he would tell her. It would be his own testament to their love, a visual po
em he’d written himself. He nursed the brake just a bit, since one foot did belong to his alter ego, and ignored the fanfare of angry toots that rang out around him. But out of the fanfare grew a more curious sound, a whine sharper than a horn or a serpent’s tooth, a sirenlike sound, and Frederick was reminded of the magical voices of those mythical nymphs, how Orpheus had rescued the Argonauts from them by playing so wonderfully upon his lyre. Good old Orpheus. He had had a heartbreaking marriage, too, hadn’t he? And, like Frederick running the red light, he had descended into hell for his beloved Eurydice. But now a blue light was flashing in his rearview mirror and Frederick recognized the whine for what it was, one that had lured so many drivers to traffic court. He knew immediately that there would be two tickets, one for speeding and one for running the red light. As he pulled over to the curb and sat waiting, Frederick wondered if he should attempt to charm the policeman, as Orpheus had charmed all of Hades. But bribery was a lot worse than running a light. Instead, he stared off in the direction of Chandra’s car, just as Orpheus had foolishly turned and looked back at Eurydice, the gray of Hades still engulfing her. What had her faint final word been as she descended back into the netherworld where he couldn’t follow? “Farewell.” But this was not the word that Frederick heard as he sat with his head bowed, his heart aching for his wild, lovely wife.