by Ann Warner
She might be correct, but it didn’t change his mind. While she was in the bathroom, he got dressed. She came back out wearing the outfit she’d arrived in before the party and carrying her formal gown shrouded in a garment bag. Anger was brewing in those crystal eyes, but her next words were still soft.
“Gerrum Kirsey, just so we’re perfectly clear. If you think I have any intention of marrying someone who toys for one minute with the idea of giving up an excellent career to go off to Alaska to write, you’re insane.” She paused for his response, but he stood motionless and silent, a rabbit frozen in the shadow of a hawk.
She shook her head, finally letting go of her icy control. “For God’s sake, Gerrum. You’re thirty-seven years old. You’re engaged to be married. It’s time you settled down, not time to go off chasing an impossible dream.”
She was right, but if one gave up dreams at any age, what was left?
She glared at him, obviously waiting for him to back down. To say he’d been kidding. That no way would he do something so antiestablishment and ill-advised, not to mention downright bizarre, as take time off from his real career to go to Alaska.
But the image of himself as a rabbit stilled his words, slowed the very pulsing of blood in his veins. If he backed off now, gave in, their relationship would never again be one of equals.
Her eyes glittered. “Dammit, Gerrum. It’s enough already that you’re an Eskimo.”
“Tlingit.”
“Whatever. My family’s been giving me grief over that.”
“So Winston informed me.”
She tossed her head. “At least you’re a Tlingit in a three-piece suit. No. This isn’t happening. I won’t let it happen.”
The overhead light spun gold in her hair, turned her eyes that lovely clear-water color, and softened her cheek to velvet. Seeing it, his heart felt like it was breaking. But in the silence that now lay between them, her words continued to resonate.
They overlaid her beauty with ugliness and reminded him of the puzzlement he’d felt when he first discovered having a mother who was an Alaskan Native made him different, and somehow not the equal, of paler-skinned classmates.
“So...what’s it going to be, Gerrum? Alaska. Or me?”
What happened to ‘I love you’? Such simple words but, in this moment, impossible to say. Equally impossible to continue the attempt to convince her it didn’t need to be the one thing and not the other. He let the silence stretch a millennium before clearing his throat to speak.
In the end, it was easier than he expected. “Alaska.”
That shocked Pam into immobility, then her head began to shake. “No. No. You cannot do this.”
When he didn’t respond, she turned and stalked to the doorway where she stopped and hooked the dress on the door frame. For an instant, relief lightened his heart. But then she pulled her ring off and slapped it on the dresser, snatched up the gown, and left without looking back.
How had it come to this?
Decisive. Feisty. A woman who would be a worthy opponent in court and an equal in the bedroom. Despite that, they’d never had more than a mild disagreement, before this. Although, in light of what had just happened, that may have been because he’d never opposed her.
He started after her, arriving at the back door as she pulled out of the driveway. He watched which direction she went before returning to the bedroom to grab his wallet and keys. But as he slipped the key into the ignition, her words replayed in his mind—at least you’re a Tlingit in a three-piece suit—and his hand stilled.
Funny how they each, with a single word, had changed the shape of the future.
Eskimo.
Alaska.
“Words have power,” his mother would say. “They must be used with care.” He pulled the key out of the ignition and, shaking off any remaining indecision, went back inside his no longer inadequate house.
Chapter Four
1982
Atlanta, Georgia
“Do you have any idea where you’re going or what you’re doing yet?” Maxine asked as she buttered a roll.
“I guess I’ll just get in the car and start driving,” Clen said.
“Hey, we were going to do that. Remember?”
She did. The summer after they graduated from college, she and Maxine had planned to travel before they settled down and looked for jobs in the fall. Then Maxine met a guy and travel plans turned into wedding preparations.
“I’m still kind of sorry we didn’t take that trip,” Maxine said.
“You did okay.”
Maxine ended up with four cute kids and a doting husband, and now Clen had been handed another chance to indulge her old dream of wanderlust. Thanks to Paul and their joint investing acumen.
“Ever since you called, I’ve been thinking about where I’d go if I were you.” Maxine set her knife down and rummaged in her purse. “I decided it would be nice to spend time in a place like this.”
She pushed a brochure across the table with the tip of a fingernail that matched her lipstick. It always amused Clen that, although Maxine would go home to a chaotic household filled with kids and dogs, she always dressed more formally for their lunches than did Clen, who would return to an office.
“Their retreat program has a terrific reputation.”
Clen glanced at the brochure. It was from an abbey, for Pete’s sake. She pushed it back. “You know I’m more a fan of advancing than retreating.”
Maxine rolled her eyes. “When was the last time you went to church?”
“Mass was still in Latin.”
Maxine shook her head. “You’re always making jokes, but I doubt God will find that one amusing.”
Which was only one of the bones Clen had to pick with the creator of the universe. “Come on, Maxie. You know God and I aren’t on speaking terms, and it’s working for both of us.”
“You may think it’s working, but when something bad happens you’ll want to have God on your side.”
“God takes sides?”
“What? No...of course not. Well, maybe.”
It just showed Maxine knew as little about God as Clen did. Besides, the worst had happened, and God didn’t lift a finger, if God had fingers. And Clen could easily guess Maxine’s response if she started a debate about that.
Hoping to cut off further abbey discussion, she waved her hand with its short, unpolished fingernails at Maxine, then slipped the brochure into her briefcase. “I’ll read it later.” She wouldn’t, but since Maxine had to suspect that, it wasn’t precisely a lie.
“I heard from Sister Thomasina last week.” Maxine delved into her purse again, then held out an envelope that Clen declined to accept. “Don’t you want to read it? She asked about you.”
Clen shook her head, wishing she hadn’t put the brochure away. Wishing she had something with which to deflect any discussion of Sister Thomasina.
“I thought you two were such great friends,” Maxine said.
Clen had long ago given up trying to figure out what she and Thomasina were—her feelings for the nun a confused mix of love, anger, and puzzlement accompanied by a dull ache. “That’s so far in the past. Nearly twenty years.”
“Seventeen.” As their fortieth birthdays approached, Maxine had become a stickler on the mathematics of such statements.
“Let’s just say, it’s another circumstance where moving on works better than looking back,” Clen said. “Remember what happened to Lot’s wife.”
Maxine sat fiddling with the pages of the letter. It was a continuing mystery to Clen how Maxine, who’d had only casual interactions with Thomasina during their years at Marymead, had established such a steady correspondence with the nun. But perhaps Thomasina was simply being courteous, responding whenever Maxine wrote, and Maxine wrote to everyone she knew, constantly. The thought of all that writing made Clen tired.
“Fine.” Maxine put the letter away. “I’ll tell her you’re peachy.”
“Thanks, Maxie. You’re a peac
h, yourself.”
“So, about the abbey?”
“I expect the reason it appeals to you is because you live with teenagers.”
Maxine tried to look stern, but her lips betrayed her. “You’re probably right.” She frowned. “You don’t need to put on your tough girl act with me.”
“Better to laugh than to cry.”
“She really had a triple-D bust?”
“They were the most humongous breasts I’ve ever seen. In fact, when she stood up, I fully expected her to tip over.”
Maxine giggled. “You are so bad.”
“Obviously.”
“Oh, Clen, he’s a louse and you don’t deserve what he did to you.”
“Actually...”
“What?”
“It’s just...I always felt deep down it was too good to be true. A man like Paul, falling for someone like me? The first time he asked me out, I figured he’d misdialed and decided to be nice about it.”
“Oh, stop it. You’re funny and smart and great-looking, and you deserve someone so much better.”
“I’m not petite, not blonde, and most definitely not endowed.”
“He married you.”
“And I don’t know why. Neither does he. I asked him. He couldn’t answer.”
“Well, he was lucky to have you, and dumb as a Brussels sprout to mess it up.”
“I doubt he’d appreciate being compared to a Brussels sprout.” And if she could focus on the image of Paul rendered rotund and green, she might be able to make it through not only lunch but whatever came next.
“At least think about the abbey?”
Clen nodded because that was easier than saying “no” and having Maxine continue to push the idea. Besides, Maxie was right. There were probably few places more peaceful than an abbey.
After Clen told Maxine about her separation from Paul, she called her parents. “Mom.” She managed only the one word, but that was okay, because Stella McClendon was never one to let a pause go to waste.
“Michelle. I was just telling your dad we should give you a call. It’s been awhile.” It was her mom’s way of letting Clen know she’d once again failed the dutiful daughter test.
Clen pulled in a breath and spoke quickly. “I’ve left Paul.”
“What? But why?”
“Short answer? He cheated on me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Oh, Michelle, I’m so sorry to hear that. I thought he was perfect for you.”
“Well, he’s certainly made it clear I’m not perfect for him, which makes him being perfect for me a bit of a problem.”
“Now, there’s no need to be sarcastic. From everything you’ve told us, I think I can be excused for assuming you were happy.”
Clen rested her elbows on the hotel desk with the phone receiver tucked into her ear. Was she ever happy with Paul? Although, her mother was right that she’d painted rosy pictures. Probably because it was harder to admit to parents you’d made a mistake then it was to admit it to yourself.
“So where are you, hon?”
“I’m still in Atlanta. At the Peachtree Plaza.” She recited the phone number. “I won’t be here long, though. I turned in my notice. I’m just finishing out the week.”
“Then what?”
That was The Question. There was Maxine’s suggestion of the abbey. Not that it had any appeal. Probably best if Clen stuck with the driving-at-random plan. Or maybe she could book a trip to somewhere exotic. The Great Barrier Reef, Machu Pichu, Mount Fuji. Have adventures.
Anything was possible, which was perhaps why she was having such a hard time making a decision.
“Hon, are you still there?”
“I was thinking about your question.” Although thinking about it made her feel panicky.
“Why not come home for a visit? We’d love to see you, and you and I can go shopping, get our hair done.”
“I’ll go shopping with you, if you agree to call me Clen.”
“Oh, Michelle, you are such a kidder. We’ll drive to Denver, and have Nancy join us. We’ll have a good time.”
“Nancy?”
“Jason’s girlfriend. She’s a sweetie. You’re going to love her. We’re expecting Jason to pop the question any day now.”
“Don’t you think I’d put a crimp in things?”
“Of course you won’t. It’s times like this you need your family.”
But did they need her? Standing around casting a pall because of a Paul? The unexpected pun made her glad she hadn’t spoken the thought aloud. Her mother never did seem to get her sense of humor.
“Just come home, sweetie.”
The mere thought of that brought on the restlessness that became her constant companion within twenty-four hours of proximity to her mother. Sticking to small doses of each other’s company was best for both of them. But, if she didn’t going home, where was she going?
Before she saw Paul at the airport with the Lady in Red, Clen had thought her life settled, stable. Now she knew her life, like a complex pattern of carefully stacked dominos, had just been waiting for a nudge to topple it.
And after the collapse, there’d been the rush of activities—the cleaning up and clearing away—until now, finally, everything was finished and all that remained was the decision of where to go.
That question poked at her, turning food into something she had to force herself to chew and swallow, and sleep into a place she could no longer locate. In desperation, she grabbed a piece of hotel stationery and a pen, ready to write any thought that came to mind.
Nothing.
Okay, McClendon. Focus.
All she needed was a first step. Something simple. How about—when she left Atlanta, which direction would she drive: north, south, east, or west? She opened the atlas she’d bought at the bookstore. Clearly the direction that offered the greatest scope was northwest. She shrugged, setting the atlas aside. As good a plan as any.
She purchased a compass, attached it to the car’s dash, and, as Atlanta receded in her rearview mirror, refined her plan further. She’d stick to back roads and drive no more than four hours, then she’d stop at the nearest town, no matter the size, and stay the night.
Joseph-and-Marying, her father called the approach one family vacation. Then, they’d hoped for adventures, but what she mostly hoped for now was that wherever she laid her head each night, sleep would find her.
Following the prompts of the compass, Clen took a series of roads that meandered north and west. She passed near or through a litany of small towns with intriguing names—Cedartown, Mudslide, Hokes Bluff, Arab, Tooks Corner. At the end of her first four hours of driving, she reached Ethel Green, Alabama. The town was small but large enough to have both a gas station and a motel. The motel’s vacancy sign, a weathered strip of clapboard, looked like it had been hung the day the motel opened and not moved since. The proprietor, a heavyset woman with tired eyes, showed little curiosity as she collected the night’s rent and turned over the key. Clen suspected a lack of curiosity wouldn’t always be the case in a town this size.
After eating in the town’s only diner, she strolled the downtown, eventually turning on a side street to explore what kind of houses the people of Ethel Green had built. Most were of modest size, shaded by large trees, but two blocks from the main street, she encountered a row of shacks with clotheslines strung in straggly yards. In one yard, clothes hung limp in the quiet air like pages of a book picked out of a puddle. A door banged, and a black girl came out carrying a basket on her hip. She set the basket down, lifted her arms, and began unpinning a row of diapers and tiny shirts.
Transfixed, Clen stood watching, wishing she’d thought to bring along her sketchbook. The girl suddenly noticed her and stopped moving. Clen smiled and raised a hand in greeting, but the girl turned abruptly away, grabbed the basket, and hurried into the house. Feeling uncomfortable, Clen walked back to the motel. There she pulled out her sketchbook and
began to draw the girl from memory.
Slowly the picture expanded. The side of the shack with its ramshackle porch, the rows of washing—not just tiny garments, but larger shirts as well—the girl’s slender arms raised to unpin the wash, the basket at her feet.
When she lifted her pencil from the page, she was surprised to discover it was nearly midnight. Even better, she was sleepy.
