Authors: C. P. Stringham
Seventy-Two Hours
By
C.P. Stringham
Text
Copyright © 2012 C. P. Stringham
All Rights
Reserved
Dedicated to my crazy,
Yellow Submarine-working,
nature-loving, shoebox-beer-drinking,
vodka-swilling, Twitter friends from Minnesota!
This is for all of your tweets about aliens
and Big Foot. You break the monotony in my
days.
Acknowledgements…
This book
is a-dream-come true for me. Years of writing for my own entertainment and
allowing “the voices” in my head to be heard…fellow writers will understand
this reference. If you are reading this acknowledgement page, thank you for
purchasing my book. I hope I have written characters you will find believable
and likeable through all of their flaws. While I am working on a project, I
spend more time in conversation with them than with my own family. Which is a
perfect segue into my first acknowledgement. To my poor, neglected family,
thank you for allowing me my writing time when “the madness” hits. I know it
isn’t easy dealing with my partial consciousness when I am present. Your
support is appreciated and I love you all so very much.
This book
would not have been possible without the wonderful editing provided by Ali
Bennett. Thank you, Ali! You graciously gave up time during your precious
summer vacation to lend me your help. Not many hardworking public school
district employees would be willing to do that. I would also like to recognize
my literary guinea pigs: Lorri Johnson, Diann Anderson, Alecia Galvin, Theresa
Glisson, Bobbie Jo Strope, Cindi Webster, Caitlin McBratney, and Jeannie Inman.
Most of you were with me from the start of
Seventy-Two Hours
; cheering
and pushing and critiquing. Ladies, I will always be grateful for your input.
Most especially, I’d like to thank My Gal Friday, Vivian Johnson. Viv, you
were the first guinea pig. I can honestly say that I love being able to move
you to tears through my writing. Not many friends would stick around for the
“abuse.” Don’t plan on going anywhere!
Present
Day
Traffic through downtown Watkins Glen was
fierce with holiday weekend tourists. The shops along North and South Franklin
Streets seemed to be reaping the benefits of its increased summertime
population. The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians and some of the stores
had moved clothing racks and shelving outside their doors showing off merchandise
to help draw potential customers inside. Souvenir shops, cafes, pubs, and
antiques stores all counted on a successful summer tourism season. That area
of Seneca Lake, in Upstate New York, was known for several things; the picturesque
lake itself, wineries, and Watkins Glen International Race Track. Much of their
tourism traffic depended on the weather, which could be unpredictable in the
winter. Lake effect snow could creep in with little to no warning and amass a
significant amount of snowfall in a matter of a few short hours.
Watkins Glen was an hour commute from our
house in Northeastern Pennsylvania. When our sons were young, we made a point
of visiting the area at least three times a year from spring until fall. Now
that the boys were young adults, they seemed to keep busy with their own plans.
Our oldest son, Hudson, finished his second
year of college in the spring. He managed to wrangle an invite to one of his
frat brother’s homes in New York City for the Fourth of July fireworks display
on the river. Ironically, the same river he was named after. Hudson was
conceived during our trip to New York six months after my husband, Chris, and I
married. Our middle child, Carson, had just graduated from high school and was
busy attending a multitude of graduation parties. He was our social butterfly.
This weekend’s party involved camping out in tents with his fellow classmates.
Clinton was our youngest and also our troublemaker. He’d passed his freshman
year of high school by the skin of his teeth. The over-achiever gene his
brothers inherited from their father seemed to have skipped over him. He was
born the day after William Jefferson Clinton was reelected. Hence his name.
For this holiday weekend, he’d accepted an invitation from my in-laws for an RV
trip to the Outer Banks. They’d be gone for two weeks. Time spent with his
dotting grandparents was more appealing than staying home with his often
quarrelsome parents. Hell, given the choice, I’d have gone along with them as
well.
I taught 8
th
grade American
History at our local junior high school and was off for summer vacation. I’d
opted out of attending teacher’s conferences and workshops or taking career
padding courses for new certifications that year. I wanted to enjoy some much deserved
freedom. Time for myself. It seemed selfish when said like that, but it was
needed nevertheless.
Chris worked long hours for a nearby glass
manufacturing corporation. His job title was Senior Engineer of Life Sciences
Products. Chris didn’t work the job. He lived it. It was the reason he’d
survived the tumultuous economy when downsizing and forced retirements were a
way of life for big business and the only way to stay profitable.
Our marriage seemed to survive his lack of
attention until two years ago. I really couldn’t put my finger on the actual
moment I began to turn resentful towards his absences from our home and family
life, but it coincided with Hudson leaving for his first year of college; a
precursor to empty nest syndrome setting in. It was only compounded by
Carson’s recent graduation.
Maybe that was the culprit. Weren’t relationship
experts always claiming that a simple event in our lives can make us behave
completely against what was considered normal behavior for us? Maybe what I
was feeling would pass when I accepted the fact that my children were almost
adults and therefore making their own lives.
“You’re quiet, Jen,” Chris said from the
driver’s seat interrupting my thoughts.
I always initiated our conversations in the
past. I’d finally gotten fed up with being the moderator of our marriage. “I
guess I’m tired,” I replied satisfied with its double meaning.
“A time away will do you some good.”
“Did Jim say how many they were expecting?” I
asked not at all in the mood for a dinner party with some of his co-workers.
“No.”
“At least Nancy will be there,” I replied on
a sigh knowing that she’d probably keep the numbers small due to the size of
their cottage.
Jim Palmer was Chris’ closest friend and golf
partner. They also worked together. We’d known him and his wife, Nancy, for
15 or more years. I liked Nancy. She wasn’t part of the phony corporate wives
club that ran rampant in our circle. She worked outside of the home, like me,
and was honest and unpretentious. Over the years, the two of us learned
quickly to stick together during the monotonous work-related social events our
husbands had to attend. I wouldn’t have survived those events if it wasn’t for
her.
I hadn’t spoken with Nancy since plans for their
dinner party came about. I’d made a dish to pass. It was a standard gesture
between us. Both of us liked cooking. For their dinner, I made bite-sized
crab quiche appetizers and, since I had plenty of time with the boys being out
of the house, made a large lemon torte with raspberry sauce.
Trying to make the best of it, the dinner
party would serve as a nice distraction for the evening. My mind had been overly
occupied. Knowing Chris and I would have the house to ourselves, at least
until Sunday morning (depending on Carson’s plans,) caused short panic attacks
with me. The scenario of being alone with him was a fate worse than dying.
When we returned home, I needed to find the
courage to tell my husband of 21 years I wanted a divorce. It was the only way
to escape from the feeling of routine hopelessness that had taken over my life
outlook. I did love him at one time. I know I did. Wholeheartedly. Now, I
couldn’t stand being in his company. Feelings of love had turned to
annoyance. Grating annoyance. So much so, that when he spoke on endlessly to
me about the one thing he was passionate about, his work, it was all I could do
to maintain my control and not scream at him to shut up.
I sat up straighter in my seat. “You just
passed their road,” I told him.
We were traveling on Route 14 North along the
west side of the lake. We’d been to the Palmer’s cottage enough over the years
for me to know what road it was on.
“I’m going a different way,” he told me.
His explanation didn’t bode well with me.
Maybe it was my new combative approach to all things married. I liked a good
argument now. It was the only spice in our marriage.
“That ‘no outlet road’ was Black Walnut
Road. Their cottage is off of Black Walnut Road. Therefore, the only way to
reach it is by taking Black Walnut Road,” I stated full of snark. “Unless, of
course, you plan on picking a random dock and arriving there by boat.”
What he didn’t hear was what passed through
my mind at the end which was, “But that would require imagination.”
“Ye of little faith.”
“Look, just admit you missed the turn so we
don’t have to drive completely around the lake.” I realized I was tapping my
foot impatiently against the floor mat. “Why are men so afraid to admit when
they’re lost?”
“Jen, you’re purposely trying to bait me and
I’m not going to take it. We’re not going to argue tonight,” he scolded as if
he were handling an errant child.
“Whatever.” A response that, as a teacher, I
hated to hear uttered by one of my students.
We drove another mile or so when he signaled
for a right turn. I held my tongue. It was difficult. Just as many of the other
roads off from the lake, this one also had row after row of grape vines growing
along the sides of it. I had no idea what vineyard they belonged to since we
seldom traveled further north than the Palmer’s cottage.
I finally decided to pull out my cell phone
and send Nancy a text message letting her know we would be late. Chris asked
me what I was doing, but I chose to ignore him. It wouldn’t be the first
time. Less than a minute later I received a reply from Nancy. It was a
simple, one word response, “What?” I responded with, “Chris missed your road.
Taking scenic route.” Again, I waited a short time for her to answer, but instead
of a text, my ringtone went off.
“Hello, Nan,” I answered.
“Hey, Jen, what’s going on? You have me
completely confused,” she said on a laugh.
“I just wanted to tell you that we’re on our
way, but we’re going to be late. Ferdinand Magellan here drove past your
road. By the time he admits it and we get turned around and backtrack, we’ll
be more than fashionably late,” I informed her.
“Come again? Where are you?”
“My guess is about 7 miles beyond the road to
your cottage.”
“You’re going to our cottage?”
Her confusion was now contagious. I looked
over and regarded the man sitting behind the wheel of the car. His jaw was set
and he kept his eyes forward.
“You aren’t at your cottage, are you?” I
asked without taking my eyes off of his profile.
“No. Jim’s sister and her family are in from
Ohio. They’re staying with us,” Nancy explained. “Jim and Chris must have
crossed their wires.”
“I think this was all Chris’ doing,” I said
on a murmur. “Sorry to disturb your family time, Nan. I’ll talk to you soon.”