Yard raking was an eternal, Sisyphean-style task in Sutton in the autumn. It seemed like every time I got a quadrant of the lawn clean, a fresh breeze wafted through, shaking down yet another shower of leaves from the sky. But the air was crisp and clean, the world smelled of earth and leaf, and I loved watching the chickadees do their swooping flight in to the feeder.
Besides, with what people paid for a gym membership, I was getting my exercise for free. And I had the added benefit of creating fine compost for next year's garden.
My phone rang just as I stepped back into the house for some tea, and I picked it up. "Hello?"
A woman's voice came warm over the phone. "Just checking in that we're still on for our virtual book club in two days."
I smiled. "Hello to you too, Simone. Yes, absolutely. I'm nearly done with An American Tragedy. Thank you for agreeing to switch out the book of the month on such short notice."
"Anne, Kathy, and I didn't mind at all," Simone assured me. "And with what you have going on over there, it seemed like a good choice!"
"I'll have Skype all set up and ready to go," I assured her. I chuckled. "And, as fate might have it, I'm actually seeing Kathy in person tonight. But I promise we won't talk about the book. We'll leave that for the group."
"You'd better not," teased Simone. "Our book time is sacred!"
"All right then, I've got to finish this raking before I head out. Talk to you in a few days!"
* * *
I pulled into the dark parking lot at The Oregon Club, sighing in resignation at the cars jammed side-by-side. It seemed like everyone had come up with the idea to head into rural Ashland on this late-autumn Wednesday night. There was not one free spot in the entire dirt rectangle. Finally I wedged myself in against the main road, hoping that for the next few hours the drivers kept their wits about them and did not stray into the gutter while texting an important message to a long-lost girlfriend.
A sign by the door said to ring the bell, so I did, then headed in. My friend Kathy was already waiting for me in the narrow hallway. A few years older than me, she offered a warm, gracious hug. We had known each other since our days at Worcester Polytech, over twenty-five years ago. At the time, having women attend an engineering school had been something of a novelty. Nowadays the college had cancelled their women-in-engineering support program as being unnecessary. How times were changing.
A waiter dressed in black arrived and showed us over to a corner table in the main dining area. The Oregon Club had once been a speak-easy, in decades long past, and the establishment clearly thrilled in that connection. The quiet building had begun life as a residential home and the original room layout was still plainly visible. The walls were gently moss colored, while the dark-wood tables sported white cloths with runners of earth-toned, textured fabric. On one wall hung a huge stag's head sporting sunglasses and a dark hat.
We ordered splits of Mionetto's Prosecco, then got to perusing the menu. So much of it looked delicious. We finally settled on carpaccio and a goat cheese dish to start. Kathy ordered "The Steak" while I decided on duck breast. The waiter headed off to fetch our items. In short order we were clinking our flutes together in celebration of friendship.
She took a sip, admiring the bubbles, and then leant forward. "How are things going with your ranger?"
"Today is exactly two weeks since we met," I murmured, looking down into the thin stream of bubbles which ascended through the pale amber liquid. Two weeks. Two weeks since my eyes had risen, calmly, quietly, and then beheld a sight which would change everything. There was a line now in my life, dividing the period before I had seen John Dixon's body and what had followed.
I could feel the rough texture of the oak tree's bark beneath my fingers, breathe in the crisp juniper and pine, see the gentle golden glistening of witch hazel along the edge of the ravine.
Were there details I was missing? An odd sound I heard as I strolled along the quiet path, dismissing it as unimportant at the time? A glimmer of something that didn't quite belong?
Kathy chuckled in amusement. "That smitten with him already, are you?"
I flushed, looking up and smiling. "I apologize, my mind had wandered ... but, yes, there is definitely something about Jason that calls to my soul."
The corner of her mouth tweaked into a smile. "So, serious?"
I tapped a finger on the edge of my glass in thought. "I know people talk about falling in love at first sight, but I think I need more than that. I know I, myself, have layers and complexities. I would hesitate to think that someone could draw in everything I am in one quick glance. I would hope that the man I am drawn to has just as many facets to him; that it would take proper time to absorb them all."
Kathy nodded. Her deep plum sweater shifted as she moved. "I imagine at first glance you could get a fair sense of character," she agreed. "You could see if he snaps at a waitress, makes a racist comment, or his car is peppered with bumper stickers promoting causes you are strongly against. But you're right, you wouldn't know at a glance if all of the delicate inner workings align properly with yours."
I smiled. "Certainly after two weeks I can tell we're generally compatible. We both adore nature. He is compassionate toward others, understanding, intelligent, and patient." I took a sip of my Prosecco. "I'm sure that for some people that is enough to call it a good match. We all have different expectations in life. Not too long ago, many women would be happy to find a man who held a steady job and didn't beat her at night."
The waiter came by with our appetizers. My carpaccio looked delicious, with rich, pink meat and shaves of cheese. Kathy's goat cheese dish was served in a fist-sized ceramic pot of candy-apple-red, complete with matching lid.
Kathy took a bite and smiled in delight. "This is really good," she enthused. Then her eyes came back to mine. "I imagine, when women first won the vote, they were thrilled beyond belief to finally have achieved that victory. I also imagine that by the time the fifties came around, women of that era were blasé about that hard-won privilege. I'm sure some didn't even bother to vote because they were too busy driving their kids around to sports and arranging dinner parties for their husbands. They lost sight of how far they had come in life."
"I wonder what the women of the sixties would think of us now," I sighed, taking a forkful of my carpaccio. "There they were, burning their bras, fighting to attain equal rights with men. Eileen wanted to change the world, making movies about racial equality and inspirational women."
I shook my head. "Now, forty years later, our young women are anorexic, caking their faces with make-up, cramming their feet into stiletto heels, and posting naked photos of themselves on Twitter. Rather than caring about equal representation and glass ceilings, they are obsessed with acquiring breast implants and hiding any sign of wrinkles or aging."
"It does seem that women often strive to reach an imaginary ideal that few can achieve," agreed Kathy.
I thought of the many beautiful, brilliant women in my life who were larger-than-average and who were penalized as a result. "I can only hope that these issues in society are cyclical," I mused. "It was not that long ago, culturally speaking, where the generous curves of Rubens paintings were thought to be an ideal in health. An ample body size represented fertility and womanhood. Maybe we reached a 'low point' in the late sixties with the emaciated stick-figures of Twiggy and, later, Kate Moss. Maybe we are now on an up-trend from that and over time we will become more and more appreciative of a naturally full woman's form."
"We can only hope," offered Kathy. "It's hard watching young women grow up today, striving vainly to squash their body into society's mold – the perfect chest size, the perfect leg length, with smooth, unmarred skin of the exact right tone. No woman can ever achieve all of those things."
The appetizer plates were removed and our main dishes arrived. Again they were cooked to perfection, with a rich garlic flavor to the green beans. Duck is one of those dishes that can be hit-or-miss at restaurants, and I was pleased to see it was done just right. I was two-for-two with my experiments for the week. Apparently the gods of food creation were on my side.
Kathy's eyes twinkled. "So, what do you think of Jason?" she asked, deftly steering the conversation back on track.
"He certainly seems like a man I could grow fond of," I agreed, nodding my head. "Two weeks is enough to have moved past all the normal weeding-out processes. I can see that, as we are now, we're nicely compatible."
"So what comes next?" Kathy spread some olive tapenade on a slice of bread and took a bite of it.
I gave a soft shrug. "Now things grow more intricate. Most pairs can find common bonds to last in a short term. They like the same music. They enjoy the same sports. They laugh at the same TV shows. They feel comfortable in each other's presence. Meet enough people, and that level of closeness can be found pretty much anywhere."
"You are a poet at heart," she teased me gently. "You're seeking something far deeper."
"That I am," I agreed softly. "There are two truisms about a person. The first is that they do not change. The second is that they do not remain the same."
She laughed at that, a low, rich sound that sparkled like sunlight on an autumn lake. "So true."
I sliced as I spoke. "People change for all sorts of reasons. I used to adore driving around and exploring all corners of New England. Now I am content to take hikes in my neighborhood instead. I used to love flying out to Seattle or California or Costa Rica to explore different landscapes. Now, when I travel, I count the days until I'm home again among my beloved hills and mossy valleys."
My mouth quirked into a smile. "Even small things. I used to adore scallops; now I find them rubbery. I used to crave macadamia nuts, but somewhere along the way I ate too many of them and I'm no longer interested."
"So you want a man who tolerates your changes?"
"I want more than that," I stated, finishing off the last green bean. "I think many women are content with tolerance. They're thankful that at least they have someone to come home to. They're glad that at least he likes dogs, or at least he enjoys science fiction. But to me, I don't want someone who just puts up with me. Life is so short. We're here for a mere blink of an eye, the alighting of a dragonfly on a wavering reed. Our time here flares with the brilliance of a dying star and then it snuffs out into ebony stillness. I want someone with me who feels that heat of the cosmos and at the same time who breathes in the peace of the eternal life around us. I want him to treasure who I am now, certainly – but who also will admire and respect me in thirty years."
Kathy smiled. "So he can't adore you simply because you kayak."
"Exactly." I clinked my glass to hers. "Let's say he was thrilled that I was a woman kayaker and at last he could kayak with someone. And, even more than that, let's say he was additionally impressed that I enjoy the music of Neptune's Car, and that I was fond of the Serenity TV show. To some men I might be an ideal woman and a perfect catch."
"But all of that is ephemeral."
"It is indeed," I agreed. "In three years I might have a hip issue and be unable to kayak any more. My tastes in music might slide so that I'm listening to Celtic guitar music all day long. I might get hooked on a military drama set in Afghanistan that looks into the interaction of the strong male US culture against the women who live their lives in burquas. If what he was drawn to was my outer shell, he might need to 'tolerate' me in my new form. For me, that would not be enough."
"You would be the same within, the same compassionate, warm, intelligent spirit," she pointed out.
"The world is full of millions of women with those same basic traits," I countered. "Someone who found those basic traits unusual would have been someone who did not meet many new people. And someone like that would always have the risk of actually getting out and around, someday, and realizing just how rich the world actually was. I would not want someone who settled for me because they mistakenly believed that what I offered, at that level, was unique in the universe."
"So what you do want is ..."
I smiled wryly. "There's a reason I have been single for so long after my divorce," I pointed out. "I have dated countless men, and many are convinced I am just right for them. Sometimes, after the first date, they know with all their heart that we are a perfect match. And yet I know we are not."
I thought about Eileen, about her dreams of inspiring others to a better life. I considered the four men who surrounded her, passionate moths inexorably drawn to her glowing flame. Could one of those men have felt, deep within his soul, that he was Eileen's soul-mate? What might he have done when she gently turned him away?
I considered each man I had questioned. Had one of them been infatuated with Eileen? Had there been a reaction to a question, or an unusual response, which might give a hint of his inner feelings?
There was still Charles left to query. When Eileen had vanished from sight that foggy evening, had his life become a barren field? Had his subsequent mis-steps reflected a shattered interior?
The waiter approached, shaking me out of my musings. He laid down my chocolate mousse, Kathy's crème brûlée, and we were in heaven.
* * *
I took the left from Route 122 onto Depot Street, thankful that the interminable project to fix the bridge had finally been completed. Previously, I'd had to make a long detour to find another way across the river. On the down side, the arched bridge used to have a fun, sharp bump in it that, when hit at the right speed, could almost send a car airborne. I had enjoyed that, some dark nights when nobody else was around. Now the bridge's curve had a far gentler arc to it. And perhaps in my growing maturity I found I did not much mind the change.
I moved up the long, sloping hill, gazing at the large homes around me, occupying land which had once been farmland. So much of the rural nature of the area was changing. Large colonials with three-car garages were creeping into orchards and wheat fields as if a wave of kudzu were sending curling tendrils over native plants. I knew that progress was inevitable, but still, some part of me resisted. I was pleased to see several black-and-white cows still occupied their comfortable, marshy pasture as I approached Central Turnpike.
I pulled to a stop at the five-way intersection, and grinned widely. They were at it again. Several years ago the house on the corner of the street had become infected with an abundance of holiday zeal. The owners had filled their yard with lights, statuary, and Christmas decorations of all shapes and sizes. Then, a year or two back, they had abruptly stopped. I had wondered if the neighbors had complained, or if the local police had declared such an ostentatious display at a major intersection to be a road hazard. Maybe it had been simple economics. It must cost a fortune to run all of the gadgetry they had.
Whatever the reason, it seemed to have been resolved, for here it all was, laid out in a glorious profusion. The entire house was coated with lights which streamed from base to roof. The lawn was nearly covered with trees, reindeer, trains, houses, and any other holiday-themed item I could dream up. There was even a sign announcing which radio station to tune to in order to hear their custom-designed broadcast.
None of it was lit yet, even though it was well past dark. I could clearly see Orion high above. Perhaps the family was waiting until December first to begin their visual offering? I gave a small nod in their direction. I would look forward to sharing in their celebration of the season. Until then, I would be content with a sky filled with silver glitterings.