by Lynne Spreen
“It’s no big deal.”
“It is to me.”
“Maybe she changed her name to look more serious,” said Karen, “with Richard being an attorney and all.”
“One of the biggest in Denver.” Frieda poked around at her meal. “She’s a grown woman. I know she’s unhappy but I can’t go live with her because of that. Anyway, it would only be a short-term fix. And when I kick the bucket, what’s she going to do then?”
“She’ll be fine. You did your best. It’s all you can do.”
“I tried to raise her to be independent, but when she married Richard, she changed. I tried to give her advice, but at a certain point you can’t help anymore. You have to let people be. Oh, fiddlesticks. The pollen is horrible here.” Frieda pulled a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes. “After Russell died, there were times I wanted to call Sandy and talk about it, you know, mother to daughter, but she kept changing the subject and I didn’t want to be a burden. Hell.” She dug out another tissue. “Anyway, life goes on. What can a person do? Nothing’s perfect.”
“It’s her loss.”
“Well, we still talked, but mostly she complained about her neighbors or Richard being gone all the time, or their taxes going up. Never asked me about myself, unless you count the ‘how are you’ at the start of the phone call. Then she’d cut me off with some inane tripe. She didn’t really want to know.” Frieda tucked the tissue in her sleeve. “Sorry. I’m not normally such a whiner.”
“It’s okay. Let me clean up and then we can sit for a while. Do you want a little sherry?”
“No more than a swallow or it’ll keep me awake.”
The evening grew chilly, and when she went back inside, Karen found matches and an old newspaper for kindling. The previous campers had left two logs in the fire pit, and the wood started right up. She moved Frieda from the picnic table to the more comfortable camp chairs.
“Warmer now?”
“I am.” Frieda took a tiny taste of her sherry. “That’s the secret to a happy life. Even if you’re sad about something, don’t let it take over. Try to have good times, too. Like this night. I’m very happy you allowed me to come along, my dear.”
Karen raised her glass to Frieda, and they sipped their sherry and watched the fire develop, its orange-white flames reassuring in the deepening night.
“Even after your kids grow up, you never stop being their mother. I tried to show Sandy how to not lose yourself once you marry and have kids. People think I’m selfish but I tried to be true to myself. A mother doesn’t stop being a person. But it’s hard to keep things even.” Frieda glanced at Karen. “Are you okay with this line of talk?”
Karen nodded. “I never had kids, but at work I felt like a mother. HR takes a certain kind of person, and you’re always listening to people, trying to help any way you can. So I got a lot of satisfaction from that.”
“I’m sure you were excellent at it.” Frieda watched a twig flare and curl, finally falling into the coals.
Karen saw the lines on Frieda’s face seemed to deepen in the firelight. “You were a good mother.”
“Don’t give me too much credit. I made plenty of mistakes.”
“But you did your best.”
“Yes.” Beyond the fire, the oncoming night had changed the colors of the red rock cliffs from bright crimson to rust to dark gray to invisible.
“I always felt bad about leaving Mom,” Karen said.
“No need.”
“There was no work in Dickinson. I had to leave if I wanted to do more than clean hotel rooms, and things weren’t so good at home.”
“Each generation finds its own way. Lena knew you loved her with all your heart.”
“But the older I get, the more guilty I feel. At the end, I worried she needed me or felt abandoned.”
“That’s my point. I can tell you right now, she didn’t.” Frieda looked over her glasses at Karen. “We always think we know what’s going on in the other person’s mind. Like I get these little mental pictures of Sandy curled up in a ball, crying her eyes out, and it kills me. But after she uncurls herself, she’s going to stand up, dust herself off, and say, ‘Well, I’ll show her, the old bitch.’ And that’s the way it should be. You have to go on.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
The next morning, Karen cleaned up the breakfast dishes and helped Frieda out to a sunny spot by the river. Back in the van, she set up a temporary office on the dinette table and got busy. Thanks to the signal beaming from the camp office, she was able to follow job leads, check email, and pay bills. But that was just a delaying tactic. After a while, she gave up and punched a number into her phone.
He picked up on the first ring. “I didn’t think you’d call.”
“I’m calling.” She listened to the silence as they breathed in unison.
“Thank you.”
She changed ears. “You said you had papers for me to sign. I’m in Utah and I’ve got WiFi. If you email them within the next ten minutes, I’ll look them over. Otherwise, it’ll have to wait.”
“That’s all right.”
“I’ll call you when I get back. We can go over the docs together. Goodbye.”
“Wait. Can you hang on a second?” A vehicle roared past him. When it was quiet again, so was he, as if collecting his thoughts.
She fingered the button that would end the call.
“Did you get my message?”
“I did.”
“So you know. There’s no pregnancy.”
Karen imagined him rubbing his forehead, eyes closed in humiliation, waiting for her to judge him. “Steve? This has nothing to do with me.”
“She was never pregnant. I thought you’d want to know.”
“I don’t fucking care.”
“Karen, please. I was hoping we could talk.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“I know I screwed up. Obviously. Big time. Major. But I’m completely aware of my mistakes in judgment. I mean, she really played me. I was blindsided, but that’s not to say I’m not guilty. I am, but I wonder if we might, if you might–.”
“Goodbye, Steve.”
“Wait, I’m not asking for forgiveness. I know I can’t expect that. But could we at least stay in touch, or–hang on.” She heard him blow his nose. “I don’t know if it matters anymore, but I wanted to tell you how much I’ve grown from the experience. I wasn’t the best husband, I admit. But I was so damned proud of you. Any man would be lucky to have you as his wife. I want you to know I’ve spent a lot of time in contemplation–”
“Steve.”
“No, please. Hear me out. Can you give me that, just out of respect for all our time together? I wanted to tell you I’ve been thinking of all we stand to lose, and it’s major. We know each other, Karen. We understand each other. It would be a mistake to let our marriage go–all those years! So I’m simply asking if you’ll do us both a favor and reflect on what we still have. Just out of respect for the love we used to have and hopefully, you might have a tiny thread left for me. I know you, sweetheart, and I know you must have some of the same thinking going on. I mean, it’s so logical to stay together. Life is hard, and now I see the risks. I never saw it before, and Karen? I’ll be honest, I’m scared. I think we need each other, in spite of everything. We all make mistakes. Will you at least consider talking about it when you get home?”
She stared at the phone in her hand, stared and stared until the display blurred and swam in front of her face.
She hung up.
Her legs wobbled when she stood.
None of it had to happen. Were it not for his stupidity and selfishness, she could be sitting at a sunny kitchen table right now, reading the paper, drinking coffee, and sending out resumes. Outside her window, the gardener would be pushing his lawn mower in neat stripes across the front lawn, and neighbors would be calling to each other along the neighborhood jogging paths.
After dumping her for a manipulative, fake-preg
nant girl, after threatening Karen if she didn’t move fast enough to grant the divorce, after leaving her to suffer her mother’s loss alone, Steve now wanted his life back.
A tiny, hot thread, like an infectious strain of some disease, started to trickle through her veins, delightful in its toxicity, thrilling in its morbidity as she realized how much she could hurt him now, at least financially. She could go through with the divorce, making outrageous demands for support in her new, wonderfully jobless situation, and he would have to pay, because he could and because he owed her.
She wobbled over to the sink and stared out the window.
Or she could skip the games and the lawyers and the bullshit and simply create a new version of the old normal. She could return home to Newport, plaster a smile on her face, and resume her old life. After a period of hateful, silent years, she and Steve would probably get over it. They would work late and avoid dinners and pass each other in the hall with a quick shrug, sharing the house until his mind went and her arthritis took over and they retired from their jobs, their final days filled with doctor appointments and crosswords. Many couples settled their differences in this way. Why not them?
Outside, Frieda sat by the river’s edge reading a magazine. She looked up as Karen flopped into the other chair. “I was beginning to wonder if you went back to sleep.”
“Ha. I’ve been inside working my butt off.”
“Find a job?”
“Lots of leads.” She locked her eyes on the blurring river and tried to settle down.
“Does your husband want you back?”
That snapped Karen’s head around. “How can you possibly be thinking that?”
“Men usually don’t like to be alone, especially the older they get. Is there really going to be a baby or not?” Frieda chuckled. “Oh, honey, the look on your face. Wish I could take a picture.”
“I’ll get my camera.”
“Don’t be mad. You have to accept the fact that nothing changes. We may be from different generations, but people play the same old games. Probably nothing new since back in the caveman days.”
Karen looked down at the water. Over the course of her career, she had handed out tissues while one employee after another railed about failing marriages. One woman’s new husband stopped working and never went back, and by the time they finally divorced, she had to pay him spousal support. Another woman discovered her husband was a drug user, swearing she’d had no inkling until finding a crack pipe in his shaving kit. At the time Karen had marveled at the women’s ignorance, yet now she felt like a member of their club.
“If you want my advice, I’d move on. Divorce him and start over.”
Karen watched a baby bird hopping after its mother. Eventually the mother flew away. The baby scrambled to follow.
“You only get one life,” said Frieda, “and you’re better than halfway through this one.”
“You don’t have to remind me.”
“I’m just saying, there comes a time when you’re at an age where you have to look at it rather coldly. Decide how you’re going to spend the rest of your valuable time.” Frieda opened her magazine back up, and then pinned Karen with a stare. “We all like to think we’re going to live forever, but at a certain point you have to come to grips with the reality.”
A little later, Karen made lunch using a new recipe. She brought sandwiches to the table, along with fruit punch and potato chips.
Frieda peeled apart the bread. “What is this? Is it spinach? I don’t really care for spinach.”
“Basil. Do you like it? I got the idea from Aunt Marie.”
“Don’t we have any lettuce?”
“There’s no room in the ice chest. Unless you want me to take the van into town and get the refrigerator fixed.”
“No, it’s fine.”
Karen added a dab of horseradish, took another bite, and scribbled a note on a small spiral pad. When she returned to California, whatever way she went, she planned to take up cooking. It would force her to relax, and serve a productive purpose as well. She would make friends, invite them over for dinners, and create a social life. No more single-minded work, work, work for her.
Over the next few days, their routine took on a comforting sameness as she experimented with recipes and domesticity. At breakfast they ate cinnamon toast resurrected from her childhood, pancakes with fresh blueberries, and a bacon and cheese omelet. A floral cloth from the camp store adorned the picnic table, along with a bunch of daisies and Black Eyed Susans stuck in a water glass. Afterwards, Frieda sat in the sun and read while Karen washed dishes and made up the beds.
For lunches she served homemade soup or sandwiches along with sweet tea and punch. After doing dishes, the two of them would read or talk until Frieda’s eyes grew heavy, at which time the laptop came out, and networking and lobbying ensued. Even though the economy was bad, Karen’s background made her a valuable commodity, and she thrilled to the overtures from her old familiar world. Everything else might have changed, but in the weeks since word of her firing seeped out, she had become a hot property, with several viable job offers on her plate. She could be employed before she even crossed the state line, and for more money than she’d been making previously.
Steve kept calling and begging, but she hadn’t returned his calls. “It’s okay,” his message said. “Take your time. I’ll be here.” Except his voice sounded increasingly frantic.
When Frieda awoke from her nap, Karen put away the computer and prepared appetizers. For dinners she had figured out how to cook small portions of fried chicken, meatloaf, and a succulent beef stew, even in spite of the tight quarters. Every evening, she built a fire using wood from the store. As the embers died and the cold returned, they went inside to read until bedtime, listening to soft jazz from Karen’s iPod and some cheap speakers she’d picked up along the way. The routine didn’t vary, except for the couple times she snuck away to call Curt. “What are you doing?” she would ask, pushing thoughts of Steve from her mind.
“Pining for you. What else?”
“Liar.” Karen could hear the sound of surf breaking on a beach. “Where are you?”
“South Carolina. I just climbed this dune and the moon is rising on the water. It’s silver. You should see it.”
“I’d like to.”
“You don’t have to whisper,” yelled Frieda through the window. “I’m not listening.”
On their fourth morning in Moab, Karen tied her hair in a ponytail, noticing in the tiny bathroom mirror that her roots were coming out, and not just a little. These roots were dull brown, surprisingly familiar, like old relatives she hadn’t seen in a long time. Their appearance represented a cumulative savings of approximately six hundred dollars in salon appointments since leaving California. She leaned in closer. Those silvery highlights were not from the sun.
When the coffee pot burbled to a finish, Karen filled a mug and took it outside to Frieda, who sat by the fire warming her old bones. “How did you sleep?”
“Like a rock.” Frieda accepted the cup and took a careful sip. “Oh, that’s good. Nice and strong.”
Karen nodded, yawning. She wrapped her hands around her mug and stared into the fire, which she’d rebuilt from last night’s unburned wood. What a treat to sleep until almost eight o’clock every morning and have breakfast whenever you felt hungry. For so many years she rose before dawn, ate breakfast in the dark, and commuted to work. What would it feel like to wake up whenever you wanted? A slow start to the day would have to be one of the greatest luxuries of life. And one day, she would have that, but not just yet. “How’s your dizziness this morning?”
“Hard to tell. Might need a few more days.”
“I found a group to walk with this morning. Will you be okay?” A sign had been tacked to the bulletin board at the store: CRS Ladies: 9 am hike. “It’s just for a couple hours.”
“Go have fun. I’ll be here.” Frieda looked off across the river.
Karen walked away slowly
, but once out of sight she broke into a trot. Soon the trees thinned to reveal the camp store. A babyfaced ranger wearing a brown campaign hat stood on the wooden porch. He held a clipboard in his armpit since both hands were busy thumbing his phone. At the foot of the stairs, a dozen women jabbered, waiting for the walk to start. One hiker wore a matching pink blouse, socks, visor, and sunglasses. Another, her back bent from osteoporosis, wore a green straw hat with pastel flowers. Almost every hat sported a rhinestone CRS pin.
“‘Can’t Remember Shit’” the woman said in answer to Karen’s question. “That’s the name of our club. We’re a bunch of widow ladies. You alone?”
“No, I’m traveling with a friend.”
“I’m Fern. The pins are five bucks.”
Karen dug the money out of her pocket and stuck the pin on her jacket collar. Fern adjusted it for her. “Next time bring a hat. You’ll get old and wrinkly if you’re not careful.”
“Too late.”
“Oh, spare me. When you get to be my age, then you’ll have something to complain about.”
“Ladies, can I get your attention?” The ranger called out from the porch. “I hope you all remembered water and proper hiking shoes. Today’s trek will last about two hours. With any luck we’ll stumble across some arrowheads.”
“If I stumble across anything it’ll be the end of me,” said one elderly hiker.
“If I stumble I hope it’s where he can catch me.” A skinny old lady with big boobs winked at Karen. The ranger began walking, his hiking stick striking cadence on the hard dirt. “Ooh. Gotta run,” she said, chasing after the ranger.
“That’s Gina,” said Fern. “She’s our cougar.”
A woman in a blue-flag travel scooter led the pack. The rest marched along in groups of two and three, talking and laughing. Karen fell in beside Fern and her friend Belle, whose sweater was covered with photo buttons of her dogs. “I hope that young man isn’t going to run like that all morning.”
“At this rate, I’ll lose my shapely behind,” said a rotund hiker.
