Turn of Mind - Alice LaPlante [41]
What divorce? I ask. What funeral?
He pauses. Well, I’ll just remember for both of us, he says, smiling. Then he turns sober. I understand you’re in a bit of trouble, he says. I wanted you to know that I believe in you. Without reservation. You clearly don’t know what I’m talking about. You probably won’t remember this. But on the chance that some things stick, I wanted to say it.
The blond woman makes as if to get up from the table.
No, no. There’s no need for you to go, he says. This isn’t a private conversation. It’s just something I wanted to get on the table. For myself, mostly, as it turns out. Otherwise, I would like to talk about good things, he says. Maybe it will spark something.
I’ll be the secretary, says the blond woman. I’ll write it all down. That way she can read it over when she’s in better shape. It might make more sense to her that way. She leaves the room, comes back with a large leather book, opens it to a blank page, picks up a pen. She writes something at the top of the page, pauses, and looks at the man expectantly.
Where shall I start? asks the man. Once upon a time. Yes, that’s the way to handle it. A myth-making event. Filled with archetypes.
I am interested. Go on, I say.
Once upon a time there were six people. Four adults and two children. Two married couples. One couple, older by about a decade, childless. The younger couple had a girl and a boy. The girl was very small, maybe two. The boy seven. Although not close in age, the two couples are close in friendship. He stops and thinks. What shall I tell you about them? No generalities. But one specific event. And he continues.
One day they decide to go to the beach. They pack some ham sandwiches, some hard-boiled eggs, apples, pears, and bottles of wine for good measure.
They decide to drive out of the city. Far north. To a state park on the lake that features large sand dunes that are mostly deserted on beautiful summer Sundays like this one.
There is a reason for this, of course. A huge nuclear power plant looms over the sand dunes, spills its excesses into the shallow water. It casts a pall on the scenery for anyone faint of heart. Which the adult members of these two families definitely are not. They joke about the relative warmth of the lake water, about mutant fish and the oversized shorebirds.
The two-year-old, relieved of all her clothes except her diaper, is taken to the edge of the water by her mother to wet her toes. The boy takes his shovel and bucket and begins digging random holes in the sand. The older woman and the two men settle themselves on beach chairs and talk. All is calm. An uneventful day at the lakeside. When they start feeling hungry, they break out the food, eat a few sandy mouthfuls, wash it down with red wine. An idyllic afternoon at the beach among dear friends. Everything is perfect. More perfect than it will ever be again. He stops, apparently in a reverie.
The blond woman is writing furiously. What a lovely gift, this story, she says. Jennifer will enjoy reading about it later. But I am getting a glimmer. More than a glimmer, a Technicolor movie. It comes in bursts of images. Invoking all the senses. I speak quickly before it dissipates.
Yes. The sandy ham that crunches between our teeth. The acidic wine. The power plant looming overhead. The grown-ups perhaps drinking a little too much. Voices are raised. Laughter comes easier. The older man abstains: He is the driver but continues pouring. The other three drink past the point of pleasure. Past the point of honesty. To somewhere more primal.
That’s right, says the man. He opens his mouth as if to continue, but I push on, following the movie in my mind. I can feel the heat of the noonday sun on my bare arms. The sand against my thighs. Hear the cries of the mutant birds.
The older woman starts it. She asks the younger man if he has noticed anything different about his wife.
Different how? the younger man asks.
Her hair. Her clothes. A general glow.
I can’t say that