Authors: Lynne Spreen
“Let’s give it another twenty,” she said. “If we don’t see anything then, we’ll turn around and figure out Plan B.”
“I’m sure we’re on the right road.”
“How do you know?”
“I just have a feeling. Now drive.”
Ten miles south, Karen came to a stop sign and turned right, relieved to see the Colorado River once again racing alongside the roadway. Soon the distant hills drew nearer, taking on the color of rust and the shape of mythical castles. Colorful rafts appeared, bristling with the arms and legs of riders paddling furiously in the fast current. Yellow daisies lined the river’s banks, and clumps of red salvia laced the rocks near the roadway. The canyon walls became steeper, their sheer red sides splashed with iron-black desert patina.
Frieda leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. She pointed at a dirt road where a limping buckboard advertised a campground just past the wood gates. “Turn here.”
Karen paid at the adobe camp office and followed the manager’s directions to an open site. Trees shaded the campground and oleander bushes screened them from visitors. Across the canyon, massive red rock cliffs soared into the sky, their walls blackened by leaching iron and scored by wind and weather until they resembled Ionic friezes on ancient Greek temples.
“I had no idea it would be this beautiful.”
“God’s country.” Frieda opened her door. Arm in arm, they crossed the uneven ground to the far side of the camp and the river, where deep rapids whispered of danger. “Will you look at that? How fast it runs. And over there,” she said, pointing a wobbly finger upriver, “over there is a path down to a little beach where the fish hide under a rock just off the shore.”
“How would you know that?”
“Came here with Russell. I remember now. It was before Sandy was born.” Frieda stared off across the river. “Can you imagine how long ago that was? I was maybe twenty, twenty-five. Hard to imagine now. I feel like I’ve always been old.”
“You’re just tired. Let me get a couple chairs. You relax while I set up. Then take a nap and when you wake up, I’ll start dinner.” Karen brought out two folding chairs and helped Frieda sit where she could watch the river from a safe vantage.
“I do appreciate you,” said Frieda.
Karen leaned over Frieda’s shoulder and wrapped her in a hug. Then she went back to the van, where she unrolled and staked the awning, shook out the rug, and hammered the surviving flamingo into the ground. She converted the dinette into Frieda’s bed and helped her into the van.
While Frieda napped, Karen plunked down in a camp chair and stared at the river. She fell silent as the arguments in her head started.
You ruined our marriage. Why should I trust you?
Because I’m sorry and I want you back.
Then she fantasized about hurting him.
How can I torture you? Let me count the ways.
After a few minutes of Inquisition-style fantasies, she realized it was a toxic way to spend her valuable time. She closed her eyes and tried to treasure the moment, savoring the fragrance of desert sage and the damp earth along the river’s edge, the quack of ducks and the rasp of a cactus wren calling to its mate.
Just this
, she whispered, repeating an old mantra and trying to clear her mind of anything else. She breathed from the belly, forcing it in and out, filling and emptying her lungs as her shoulders relaxed. From time to time, she sensed a fleeting warmth that almost bubbled into happiness.
But then Steve would come back and shatter her peace. She was almost glad to hear Frieda awaken.
Karen put a pot of water on the small galley stove, remembering that her mother threw in salt to hasten the boil. Unwrapping a half-pound of ground beef, she dumped it into a plastic bowl, added chopped onions and seasonings, and squished it all together. The mixture rolled easily between her hands, and soon six small meatballs were browning in a skillet.
“You need any help in there?”
Karen turned away from pouring a jar of spaghetti sauce into a pan. “I’m fine,” she said, coming to the door and wiping her hands on a dish towel. Outside, Frieda sat in a folding chair, watching the evening come on.
When the pasta had cooked
al dente
, Karen loaded up two plates and carried them out to the picnic table. Together they dined by the last light of evening, watching the colors change on the canyon walls, and the night birds dart low across the river, chasing insects.
“This spaghetti is delicious,” said Frieda. “I feel like a queen, being waited on hand and foot.”
“You deserve it.”
“Some would say otherwise.” Frieda chewed and swallowed. She reached for a glass of water. “I just want you to know my daughter’s birth certificate says Sandy.”
“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.”
.
T
he 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-pregnant 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?”