Forever Finley

by Holly Schindler

  But Timothy was already turning toward the main road, the paved road, the same path the two of them had run before. She supposed there should have been a comfort in that, in knowing they could conquer this leg of the race. But there was torture in repetition, too, she’d recently begun to suspect—drying the same dish, cleaning the same cranny under the same sink in the same bathroom. It could drive a woman to complete madness.

  They passed by a gray-hair with a stroller—obviously a grandmother, enjoying time alone with her sleeping grandchild. Patricia thought again of Jessica, of the landline and the man’s voice. She supposed that most mothers would be trying to convince their daughter that no marriage and no children were gaping holes in a woman’s life, holes that needed filling. Then surely, once her own Jessica had filled such holes, she would need Patricia all over again—she would look to the experienced one for help, giving Patricia a fresh purpose. But Patricia saw that intrusion as selfish. Why convince her daughter to see nonexistent flaws? Why convince her she was unhappy when she obviously wasn’t?

  “Patty,” Timothy panted, less than ten feet from the bridge. “Patty. You gotta slow down,” he begged, holding his side.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, grabbing his elbow. “Are you sick? Did you hurt yourself?”

  “Cramp,” he grumbled. “Bad one.”

  “Too much breakfast,” she scolded. And had to swallow the I told you that started to bubble up her throat.

  It had become something of a recent habit, his heavy meals—Patricia wondered if they were an excuse on his part to avoid needless chitchat. Seconds and thirds of pot roast or beans and cornbread at supper. For breakfast, Timothy would cram down his two eggs, then point at an empty plate as he asked, “We got any more of those frozen Belgians, hon?” And then it was, “Where’s the butter—no, no, not the margarine, the real butter?” And “Didn’t we used to have boysenberry syrup, not just the maple stuff?” And Patricia was left wondering how the two of them had ever once had a full conversation. The kind of conversation that had meant the food on their plates had cooled before either’d had a chance to finish. Once, there had been too much to say—about the world, themselves, their beloved Jessica, where they were going together. Hadn’t there? So much, it had seemed that they’d never get to the end of it all.

  But they had. Everything had an end. Even the longest of long-distance races. Maybe even couples who did everything right, following the path that had been laid out before them.

  That last thought gave her a stomachache, too. Worse, she figured, than Timothy’s cramp. And for the first time in thirty years of April’s Promises, Patricia began to doubt they’d cross the finish line.

  Timothy was trying to laugh. But his laughter wasn’t his own—it belonged to a stranger. It was the strained laughter that came from a man who did not know the person he was talking to: two parts nerves, one part daydreaming of another place. Patricia staggered backward at the sound of it. Once, she had been his daydream, his soft landing. His wish I was there. Had he tired of her inability to grow a philodendron, to knit a hat, to be good at it, this path that had been paved for them—retirement, a race as long as their lives together had already been up to that point?

  “I feel like that old Chevy we had,” he muttered. “The one that broke down. Every single family vacation. Remember?”

  This wasn’t funny. Didn’t he know it wasn’t funny? For decades, they’d been running side-by-side, left and right feet hitting the pavement at the same time. And now, here, out of nowhere, she and Tim were no longer in perfect sync. He was dreaming about campers and she was dreaming about—what? What did she want? How was she ever supposed to figure it out attached to him and their silent dinners? How could he be so blasé about it all?

  The world grew quiet as the bridge emptied and the last of the contestants passed from sight. Patricia’s teeth ground against each other as she watched Timothy put his hands on his knees and pant, trying to calm his stomach. She resented this position—being the one left behind, immobile, stuck with this person who had ruined their day by cramming too many sausages down this gullet. Behind her shoulder, fish feeding near the surface of the river were creating small circles that moved around and around—never going anywhere.

  Finally, Timothy straightened himself up. “Come on,” he said. Waving for her to join him, Timothy resumed jogging, his body tilted at an angle, his gray hair bouncing. He was never going to make it, Patricia thought. Not in the shape he was in.

  There they went, yet again, down the predetermined path. But Patricia’s mind felt just like those confused arrows, pointing a variety of directions. Without realizing what she was doing, she took a step too close to Timothy; she tripped on his foot and flew forward, her knees catching the sidewalk.

  He tried to get her to her feet, but she pushed him away—harder than she’d intended.

  “I shouldn’t have gone this way, gone down the main stretch. You wanted to run by the river—I saw it and just ignored it. And now you’ve fallen and hurt yourself.” He sighed. “I’ve made a mess of everything.”

  Patricia could feel tears in her eyes. That wasn’t true. She was the one who was floundering—the dandelions sprouting in the flower boxes and the stupid mufflers and the boring sunsets were proof of that. Blood drops ran the length of her shin bones like tears.

  “I’m sorry, Patty—we should—we should just probably—”

  He was going to say it. He was going to say pack it in. It wasn’t working. Only, he wouldn’t just be talking about the race. It was all of it, it was them—Patricia knew it. And she wanted to toss her hands in the air and she wanted to grab onto him all at the same time. What do you want, what do you want? her inner voice shouted. Which way do you really want to go? But forward was frightening at that moment—so frightening, in fact, that her mind kept spiraling back through all their years together, everything they’d gone through—the worry over Jessica and money and the house and silly spats over who left the coffee pot on and the tenderness that had always been there waiting behind a closed door. Her thoughts clicked through her life in a series of still images, like the family pictures she’d always slipped inside Christmas cards before mailing them off to her parents and Timothy’s. Each picture in her mind grew increasingly Polaroid-faint as the years grew farther away.

  “Don’t you remember Black Christmas?” she blurted.

  He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “The ice storm. Jessica was maybe seven, eight. And we had no power. I was the one who walked to the store, brought back the supplies we needed. The one no one ever had to worry about because it was assumed I could do it. I was the one who laughed at the harsh punishments winter doled out. The one who ran this race with Jessica on my back one year. Who—” She stopped, shook her head. “I’m still every bit as tough. I’m not ready for campers and early-bird dinners.” There. She’d said it. Was she glad? She wasn’t sure—her mind was still one of those confused arrows.

  Timothy nodded. “And don’t you remember that on the same Black Christmas, I was cutting our fallen trees into logs—stacking them so they’d dry out and we could use them in the fireplace the next year? Hour after hour after hour, because I couldn’t stand to be cooped up in that house. I don’t want to adhere to a couch for the next thirty years, either.”

  “We’re falling apart,” Patricia said, the tears flowing freely now.

  “Falling apart?” Timothy said incredulously. “Come on, Patty. We’re just lost. We’ve been lost from day one.”

  Patricia frowned. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t remember. Day one. Come on—there we were, on campus. When I ran into you. You were listening to Springsteen. It was so loud—I could hear the song when you tugged those silly headphones down from your ears—”

  “Of course I remember that,” Patricia fired back.

  “I was new to campus, a freshman, and I had no idea where any of the buildings were. I
was all turned around, running because I was already late. And you showed me that schedule of yours and admitted you’d been wondering how you’d ever find any of your own classes. And I said, ‘Well, then, let’s be lost together.’”

  Patricia’s eyes widened. She’d forgotten that part—or maybe it had just gotten overshadowed by other details.

  “And we ate Oreos and walked around until we finally found our buildings,” Timothy said.

  Patricia nodded. Yes—it was all true. No longer Polaroid-faint.

  “It’s no big deal, Patty,” he insisted. “We’re just lost temporarily. Let’s be lost together. Before you know it, the right building’s going to loom ahead on the horizon.”

  Timothy stood at an angle, his stomach still cramping up—and extended his hand.

  Patricia accepted, let him help hoist her to her feet. The effort made him stagger; she caught him; he wrapped his arms around her waist, seeming grateful for the support.

  They laughed—they laughed at their ridiculousness. They laughed in relief. They laughed until they even frightened the birds into silence, until they were the only sounds left in the entire park. Until Patricia felt it—a second wind.

  “We’ll come in last,” she said.

  He shrugged. “What’s the rush? Can’t think of a better way to spend an afternoon.”

  They hobbled forward—her limping, him holding his side. Timothy began to lead them away from the main road.

  “Not the river,” Patricia said, even though it was the path she’d wanted to take moments ago. She would prefer a path that had not yet been forged, one with no arrow pointing the way. She gestured toward a nearby hill covered in wild purple flowers.

  “You think we’re in good enough shape to get over it?”

  “Maybe not individually.”

  Timothy nodded, understanding. Leaning on each other, they began to climb. Timothy began to hum—an old tune, a good tune. “Hungry Heart.” Patricia joined him, moving to the familiar rhythm of the song.

  And for the first time in what felt like eons, they were finally, finally in step.

  Mayday Mayday Mayday

  Can holiday magic cast its spell well into the warmth of spring?

  Engagement should be a happy time in a young woman’s life, but for Natalie (the heroine of “Come December”), it’s plagued with doubts. She’d only known Damien four months when she accepted his proposal. On occasion now, when the two are together, she hears a distinct Mayday distress call. Where is the voice coming from? Does it have anything to do with the enigmatic figure she encountered in the cemetery last winter? Or is Natalie afraid she’s about to go down in flames?

  Funny how the birds here sound like early morning television anchors, Natalie caught herself thinking as her eyes cracked open. Her first spring in the town of Finley meant being awakened each morning by their calls: a repeating sound, something like “Aay-ayeee, aay-ayeee,” but in a voice that sounded somehow electronic, amplified by a microphone, the sort that they had at the news station where she worked.

  “Aay-ayeee,” she mimicked, pulling herself from bed. She liked these unseen birds and the sound of their voices; they didn’t seem to her like annoying alarm clocks, but instead felt like companions.

  Her smile and her good mood faded, though, before she even got her first cup of coffee poured. Faded and withered like a time-lapse video of a flower dying in front of her eyes. Faded because her computer had just pinged from the tiny breakfast table in her apartment, announcing the arrival of another e-mail.

  They’d been flooding her inbox solidly for a month now: confused—or upset—or completely frantic—messages from her parents and her oldest friends, filled with capital and boldface letters. And question marks. Lots and lots of question marks.

  Not exactly the sort of reaction Natalie suspected most girls received when they announced their engagement.

  Then again, though, the girls Natalie had known back home—friends who were saved on her phone in the goofiest photo ever, all of them standing in a chain, kicking like the Rockettes—they were sensible. They knew when to be silly and when to be serious. None of them were the sort to get engaged a mere four months after meeting and falling for a man. And they certainly didn’t get engaged on April Fools’ Day.

  In all honesty, even Natalie had thought Damien’s proposal was a joke at first. There they’d been, taking a walk in Founders Park, laughing about the way the mud along the river was a giant suction cup against the soles of their sneakers. She was telling him she didn’t care if it wrecked her favorite Keds, spring was still her favorite season, and he was making his own fleeting comment, something along the lines of “When your last name is December, you’ll have to learn to love winter just as much.”

  In a knee-jerk reaction, she had barked something like “Huh-uh,” and had pointed at him in a no way fashion, to let him know she wasn’t falling for his lame prank. Not on the first of April—she was quicker on the uptake than that. But when his blue eyes—the ones that had always reminded her of the summer sky, even on that first cold winter day when they’d met—had suddenly taken on a wounded look, she’d instantly regretted her teasing. Damien wasn’t trying to hide a gotcha snicker. Which meant she’d wanted to take her laughter back—wad it up like a letter she’d thought better of, and toss it into the river. Then, in a flurry of Are you really—? and Would you be—? they were shouting and hugging each other and agreeing—Yes, yes, yes. This is perfect.

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE ENGAGED?” the e-mails had been repeating, like an echo or a song sung in a round, over and over again, for a solid month. “Who is this Damien person? You’ve never brought him home. Do you have reservations about all of us meeting him? Are you afraid of what we’ll say? If so, that can’t exactly be a good sign.”

  Or: “Didn’t you move to Finley—a slightly bigger town with more opportunities—in order to pursue your own dream? Videographer, Natalie—remember that? Huh? Remember the way you used to watch CNN and critique the footage? When you left, it was with the idea that Finley would be temporary. A place to land before moving into a bigger market, then a bigger one after that. Have you ever thought seriously about what you’ll be giving up? For what—a couple of kids and laundry? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  That last message had come from her best friend, the one who had known Natalie long enough to have no second thoughts about rolling her eyes and telling her to get real or grow up. The one who had told her in high school to quit moaning over her beautiful but moody and unpredictable boyfriend, or scolded, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Natalie. I got a D on that test. You got a B-. Boo-hoo.” The kind of friend that Natalie had begun to suspect she’d never make again after moving to Finley—not now that she had also officially crossed the city limits into her adult life. Natalie had flinched, reading it, like her friend was right there in her living room and had punched her in the arm for not stopping to think through what getting married right now would really mean. She’d slammed the screen down on her computer and tried to forget the message.

  But she couldn’t forget. Her friend was right—Natalie hadn’t considered what she could be giving up, not at the moment she’d agreed to Damien’s proposal. And the thought had since crossed her mind—more than once—that perhaps the whole thing had started as a joke for Damien, too. That maybe he’d changed his mind somewhere in the middle of it. After all, what man just popped the question out of nowhere, without setting the mood—taking her to some romantic restaurant? Or getting down on one knee? Or even—this was the worst part—buying a ring?

  No, Natalie did not have a ring. She’d told Damien diamonds weren’t important. If Damien wanted, they could get them in their wedding bands. Mostly, when she talked about diamonds, she was trying to open up a space where Damien might feel free to admit that his proposal really had been spur of the moment. She was trying to give him room enough to wiggle out, if he wanted.

  Only, he hadn’t. He’d laughed and his su
mmer-sky eyes had sparkled and he’d kissed the top of her head.

  Another ping. Natalie couldn’t help it—she had to look. This time, the message was from her mother: “I had a dream about mobsters last night. A regular Goodfellas nightmare. Damien December? Really. I never thought it even sounded like a real name. It sounded more like something made up. Now, I think Damien December sounds EXACTLY LIKE A MOBSTER NAME. IS HE A MOBSTER??? I mean, I know he couldn’t be, only…I have to ask: He’s not, is he? Natalie, we have to talk. The longer I go without hearing all the details, the worse this thing gets in my head.”

  She might have laughed if there was not an honest pleading tone running through her mother’s message. She really was upset. And Natalie didn’t know what to tell her, how to make her feel better. Even Natalie had begun to question her own impetuous behavior. What was she doing? Damien had a job that he loved. A school he adored—wasn’t that part of what she had found so endearing? What if there were indeed other jobs, other opportunities, other steps on the ladder of her own life left to be climbed? Could she ever ask him to leave his job for hers—to move to a school that he might like far less than he liked this job? Would he leave his job for hers? There was always compromise in marriage—but who would do the compromising? Would she always be on the losing end? By agreeing, had she already taken the life she had always envisioned for herself, folded it into the shape of a boat, and set it adrift on the river in Founders Park, waved goodbye as it drifted away?

  But how did a girl tell a man that maybe it would be better if they weren’t quite so engaged right now? Wouldn’t that just sound like a complete rejection? Wouldn’t it ring in his ears like a resounding “No”?

  She had fallen for Damien—she’d never waffled about that. There had been an immediate connection the day he’d moved into their apartment building, and she’d helped him carry a box of small glass elephants, little trinkets that he’d inherited from a favorite aunt and lovingly carted from one apartment to the next. He’d talked about his family and his students with a warmth that had never made him seem like a stranger. Right there, the day they’d met, they’d easily fallen into a comfortable pattern of cracking jokes and calling out to each other as Natalie’d helped him with the rest of his boxes. It became a game—Natalie guessing what was in each box, Damien laughing harder as her guesses got wilder (”Bottles of absinthe?” “Severed head collection?”), and Damien asking her if she thought the manager would care if he painted his bedroom Finley school colors: black and neon green.