Authors: Lynne Spreen
Karen heard ice clinking in a glass.
“I’m just sorry I didn’t act sooner,” Peggy said. “I stopped by a travel agency on the way home and picked up a shitload of cruise brochures. Did you know there’s a line that goes around the world continuously? I’m getting a full suite with a balcony. Butler, evening cocktails delivered to your room, the works.”
Karen sighed. “I have to say, I’m a little jealous.”
“You’re still young, but don’t wait too long.”
After they hung up, Karen called her housekeeper. Jean got right to the point. “When I got to the house this morning there was an overnight envelope on the porch. It’s from a law firm.”
“Would you open it?” Karen heard paper tearing, and Jean began to read. The lawyer’s wording was clear. Steve wanted the divorce expedited, and the house put on the market immediately. Karen was surprised at the sudden warlike tone. Stupid of her to think it would go easily. “Set it aside. I’ll be home in a couple days.” She hung up, feeling light-headed. Maybe it was the altitude.
“It’s getting on toward dinner time,” said Frieda. “We should get going.”
In the fading light, a bit of yellow-gold winked at Karen from under the driver’s seat. She got down on her knees and gently extracted the rosary Father Engel had given her at the funeral. The last few rays of sunset illuminated the amber beads, lovely but pointless. She zipped the rosary into a pocket of her purse. Dickinson seemed very far away.
.
W
hen they stepped out of the trees, Mae jumped up from her seat by the campfire. Behind her, a motor coach occupied every inch of the lengthy driveway. A chandelier glittered within. The camp table had been set for three.
“Who’s not eating?” asked Karen.
“Wall prefers his meals inside.” Mae glanced at her watch. “In fact, he should be about ready. Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” She went into the coach to serve her husband.
“What a pansy,” said Frieda.
“Shhh. They’ll hear you,” said Karen. “Mae has an accent. I wonder where she’s from?”
Mae returned holding a glass casserole between two oven mitts.
“You set a nice table.” Frieda tapped a finger on the china plate in front of her. “Is this Royal Doulton?”
“It’s an old set we use for camping.”
“Mine are more like leftovers from the Chisholm Trail.”
Mae placed the casserole in the middle of the table, lifted the lid, and stood back proudly as the aroma of hot stew wafted on the breeze. “
Coq au vin.”
Frieda glanced at Karen. “Bet you’re glad now.”
Mae began to ladle the steaming casserole onto their plates. “I’ll tell you the secret to this dish. The older the bird, the richer the flavor.”
Frieda nodded. “Many things improve with age. There’s your proof. Boy, it feels good to be camping again.”
“If this is what you call camping, I could get used to it.” Her stomach rumbling, Karen watched Mae pour wine from a decanter into three glasses. “Thanks again for inviting us.”
“It is my pleasure.”
Frieda raised her glass. “To the journey.”
Mae swirled the wine around in the glass and sniffed. She looked up at Karen, beaming. “I’m glad I saved this bottle. The vineyard of origin is five centuries old, and very small, near Lyon, France,” she said. “I think you’ll find–”
“Mae,” Wallace called from the motor coach.
“Excuse me.” She picked up the casserole dish and hurried inside.
“I wouldn’t put up with that,” said Frieda.
“Every marriage is different. You can’t tell from here.”
A few minutes later, Mae returned. “Don’t let your food get cold because of me. Eat.”
With her first taste of the savory chicken, Karen was transported back to Girard’s in Laguna Beach, and a dinner celebrating one of Steve’s first big promotions. The diamond earrings he’d given her reflected the candlelight as they held hands in the darkened booth.
But that was very long ago. She reached for her wine, the campfire blurring.
“Mae, you’re not eating,” Frieda said.
“Really, I am.” Mae pushed her food around on her plate. When she saw Karen watching, she shrugged. “Well. I admit, he is anxious that I’m not in there with him. We have forgotten how to entertain.”
“Nothing wrong with your entertaining,” said Frieda. “This casserole is delicious. You must have gone to some fancy cooking school.”
“It’s a simple dish.”
“Sometimes simple is better.”
“Mae.”
“Excuse me.” She stood and hurried inside again.
“This is beginning to annoy me,” said Frieda.
“Maybe it’s her tradition. You know, old country.”
“Old country, my rear end. Old man, you mean.”
Mae returned. “My husband is not himself lately. His back has been bothering him more than usual.”
Karen remembered how nimbly Wallace had moved around that afternoon, climbing in and out of her van and hunkering down to chock the wheels.
Frieda wiped up the last of her gravy with a piece of bread and sat back, hands over her stomach. “You two’ve been married a long time, looks like.”
“Yes. Twenty-seven years.”
“How did you meet?” asked Karen.
“I am originally from Sweden. One summer Wallace visited my workplace with an American delegation of engineers. I was asked to show them around and explain how our plant operated.”
“Because your English is so good?”
“Yes, and also because I had designed the energy system at the plant. I have a degree in thermodynamics with a minor in hydrology.” An owl screeched, and they all looked to the forest. “Of course, I have not worked in that field since I married. Except to raise my family.” She grinned. “I could always fix the plumbing.”
Karen busied herself with the last bite of chicken.
“Raising kids is work, too,” said Frieda. “You have two?”
“Yes, both girls.” Mae’s face shone in the firelight.
“You must be very proud. I myself have a daughter and a granddaughter and a great-granddaughter. That’s where we’re going now, to Denver, to see them.”
“How wonderful for you. Mine are grown, too, with families of their own. It is more difficult to see them now. Everyone is busy, and there is the distance–one lives in Boston, the other in Texas.” Mae stood. “Would anyone care for dessert?”
“That would be lovely.” As Mae walked away, Karen snuck a look at her Rolex. The chill she felt wasn’t entirely due to nightfall.
“Look there.” Frieda pointed at the window. Inside they could see Wallace shaking his head, while Mae’s delicate features wore the hint of a frown. “Bet she’d like to whack him with that spatula.”
“She must be used to him. Otherwise, she would have left him a long time ago, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. She’s so smart, and he’s such a jerk. It always surprises me, what people put up with.”
When Mae returned carrying a tray of glasses, Wallace followed behind with a bottle of cognac. Karen shivered. The camp fire had burned down.
While Mae poured, Wallace put more logs on the fire. When he had the flame blazing, he held a snifter up to the light, turned the glass to and fro, and swirled the cognac before sipping. He rolled the liquid around in his mouth, frowned, and set the glass on the table. “My wife tells me you’re going all the way to California.”
Karen wrapped her glass in both hands, warming the coppery liquid. “I am, but Frieda is only going as far as Denver.”
His thin eyebrows rose. “You’ll be traveling alone? Do you think that’s wise?”
“Wise or not, she’s going, and good luck talking her out of it. She’s in a big fat hurry to get back,” said Frieda.
“I’ll be fine,” said Karen.
Wallace scowled. “It’s very risky in such an old vehicle.”
“Now, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Frieda. “That’s a Roadtrek 190, built to last, and my Russell took care of it like nobody’s business.”
Karen agreed. “The van runs beautifully, and I’m planning to take it around the Divide, through Albuquerque so I can avoid the higher elevations. It’s a bit farther, but safer.”
“Always play it safe, that’s our Karen,” said Frieda.
Wallace cleared his throat, but Mae placed her hand atop his. “It sounds like fun.”
“Well.” He withdrew his hand and stood. “Good night.”
Mae watched him walk away. “I’m sorry. He is a little bit not himself tonight.”
“At least he has a nice place to rest. Your coach is beautiful,” said Karen, hoping to break the tension.
“Yes. We live in it fulltime.” Mae put another piece of wood on the fire. “It was Wallace’s dream. He sold our home in Boston as soon as our youngest went away to university.”
“I’ve heard of people doing that, selling their house and RVing fulltime after retirement,” said Karen. “It seems fascinating. Do you like it?”
“There are plusses and minuses.”
“It must be a great way to visit with the kids,” said Frieda. “You travel around the country, stop at their place and park your own little house right out on the curb.”
“That was our intention. However, we haven’t seen either of them for two years, although we speak on the telephone frequently, and I can make video calls on my computer.”
“Wallace is the one with wanderlust,” Karen guessed.
“He likes to keep moving.” Mae glanced back at the coach. “I would prefer to be near them more often. But Wall was raised in difficult circumstances. It has shaped him.”
“He’s lucky he found you, Mae.”
“Oh, no. I am the lucky one. He is a good man.” Mae drained her glass.
“Mae!”
She disappeared into the trailer, and Karen stared into the flames. She felt the amber liquid warming her insides, and the embers pulled her gaze into the glowing orange-white fissures in the fire pit. The beautiful destruction of the burning flames hypnotized her. Nothing’s perfect, she thought. Regardless of the tension around the campfire, she felt at peace. She had seen so much beauty, given Frieda a chance to visit old sites, and ended their day with a fine meal. Under the influence of the cognac, the news of Steve’s legal broadside receded into the background. Aromatic tendrils of wood smoke laced the air, drifting toward her and then away. For years she had reproached herself for not living more in the moment, but in this moment, she felt fully present.
The screen door opened and Mae approached, holding a framed portrait. “This is my family. Four generations.”
Frieda took the painting, her hands gripping it tightly. “My goodness. This is a work of art, Mae.”
“Yes, it’s an original oil.”
Karen leaned in closer. In the painting, the two daughters flanked Mae and her mother, who held a great-grandchild on her lap. In the row behind, the sons-in-law stood grinning on either side of an impassive Wallace.
“It was painted in Sweden. That was the last time I saw my mother. She passed away soon after.” Mae took the picture back, her eyes locked on the canvas. “She is the one who taught me to cook.”
“She’s beautiful, Mae, like you and the girls.”
“I wish I could have visited her more often. When she became ill, I tried.” Mae watched while Karen poured more cognac. “Wallace was uncomfortable flying. We argued for days. Even my daughters fought with him, and he finally relented, but we missed our chance.”
Shaking her head, Frieda handed Mae the painting.
Karen capped the decanter and handed a glass to Mae. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
Mae stared at the painting on her lap. “It is very hard sometimes.”
They heard the sound of pots and pans clanking together, and Mae glanced nervously at the coach. “I wish he would leave the dishes. He thinks he is helping but he has so little patience.” She flinched as a kettle hit the floor.
“Goddamn it!”
Mae jumped up as if sprung from a catapult, her eyes fixed on the coach, forgetting the painting. Too late, she felt the frame leap from her fingertips. The three women lurched forward as one, trying to grab it, but in her panic Mae batted the picture toward the roaring logs. With a scream, she watched as the painting landed in the center of the flames and began to blacken.
Karen grabbed Mae from behind and pulled her back from the fire pit. The three of them watched in horror as the flames licked the canvas and the faces of Mae’s family disappeared. When the frame had curdled to a blistered black rectangle, Mae fell back against the table, a strangled sound escaping her throat. Karen wrapped her in a hug. Frieda was speechless. They stared at the fire until the painting was indistinguishable from the rest of the charred logs.
Mae slipped from Karen’s embrace. “It was inevitable.” With small uncertain steps, she returned to the coach, closing the door without a word.
The camp fell silent except for the snap and snarl of the fire pit. Frieda, her limbs trembling, pulled her coat tight and reached for Karen’s arm. Together the two of them felt their way through the dark woods, the icy pine air burning their windpipes. Night in the Black Hills had fallen with a deep chill.
.
“W
e should have brought a flashlight.” Frieda clutched Karen’s arm. Away from the fire, their teeth chattered.
“I think the moon’s full enough, once our eyes adjust.” Karen matched her pace to Frieda’s, inching back to the security of their camp. In the dark, she unlocked the RV and felt around for the light, then helped Frieda into the van. While Frieda leaned against the kitchen counter and shivered, Karen figured out how to turn on the heater. Then she pulled bedding and pillows from a compartment, and converted the dinette table in the rear into a bed.
Still in her velour track suit, Frieda burrowed under the covers and groaned with relief. “My God, I forgot how cold it gets up here.”
Karen pulled the curtains closed over each window. She reconfigured the seats in the front of the van, turning two captain’s chairs around to face each other and connecting them with a mattress board. Next she laid down a layer of bedding, and finally a sleeping bag lined with down. Shivering, her skin covered in goose bumps, she changed into a pair of sweats and dove under the covers. She reached for the light switch. “Good night, Frieda.”