Bare
The weather was beautiful, a good omen as my husband always said. It was Friday. That’s when I usually did my weekly grocery shopping. I had my cart full of fruit, herring and all the sugar-free products they carried at that store. After careful thought over the pros and cons of low fat yogurt’s affect on diabetes I chose a checkout line, got in it and waited. It wasn’t one of those self-checkouts. God help a woman my age who tries to learn all that technology. It’s too late for us. Far too late.
Florida was beautiful that time of year. It’s beautiful every time of year. That’s why we came. Two old folks like us don’t belong in Massachusetts. My husband, with his arthritis, can’t even pick up a shovel anymore. Another year of snow would have been too much.
We loved Florida. Retirement suited us. When we pulled up the “Sold” sign from our little green front yard my husband turned to me and said, “April, welcome to the next chapter.” I love that about him. He’s always saying things like that. He sees life as a novel. A work of art to be experienced with an open mind and a thirst for adventure. Every step was a different chapter. At 19, the two of us had run headlong into that first chapter together faster than a horse with the whip on its back. Since then, the chapters have only gotten better. He’s always saying we were in the climax of our life. The big chapter. Every chapter is the big chapter to him. That’s why I love him. I haven’t regretted even a page of our novel together.
I moved a step up in the check out line on my painful hips and shaky knees. I remember thinking about how nice it was to listen to music while shopping. Things are so convenient these days. Even the most mundane tasks are made fun by all the technology and such. There was even a TV screen at every checkout stand repeatedly playing a show about saving money. After a few seconds I became mesmerized with the little screen. I swear, these things will never get old for me. I shook my head to pull myself out of my hypnosis and that’s when I saw him.
I took a second to breathe. Then I took another second. Breathing was all of a sudden the hardest thing to do in the world. How many years? After all those years, there he stood right in front of me, in the very next checkout line. Jacob Nue. Under all the changes in his appearance, he was there, exactly as he was in 1955. He wore glasses now. Simple, wire-rimmed glasses. He was always simple. It didn’t take much to please him. When we would go on picnics I needed only to pack him a ham sandwich, no mayonnaise, and he was happy. I always had my proper fixings and sides and he would say, “April,” and he’d shake his head. “April, you will be the death of me.” He was always saying that. “April, you will be the death of me.” At least once every day we spent together.
At least a year. Yes, it was at least a year. And then he was gone. Gone to pursue the things that I was not supposed to pursue with him. He had promised to write, and to call when he had the money for long distance. With his scholarship, he said, he’d be able to save the money. With his scholarship, he’d said, he’d even be able to afford the trip back and forth from Cambridge to Me. He’d said.
I never saw him again after the day he left. I kissed him goodbye. I had tears in my eyes, but not so many it would put a man off. Just enough to let him know how I felt. Alone. Sad. I’d miss him. I loved him. I love him.
And there he was. In front of me. Well dressed, of course. I knew he’d do well for himself. Of course he would. How could “a man of his caliber”, as his father always put it, do badly?
I didn’t know what to do. Fifty-seven years ago I would have given my ticket to heaven to see him again. I’d have happily burned in hell forever for the chance to look at him again. To touch him again. To hear his voice again. And there he was, a vision from the devil himself answering my pleas. But it was 57 years too late. The devil is funny that way. He tortures you that way.
I guess it’s not so funny.
The cashier’s firm voice brought me back to the present. It’s funny. No one really ever gets angry with me anymore, just firm. I guess they figure I’m too old to take it. But it wasn’t an angry cashier I couldn’t take. What I couldn’t take was seeing Jacob standing 10 feet away from me. I was too old for this.
I wanted to strut right up to him and drawl, in an uncaring way, “Where were you?” I wanted to saunter right up to his face and say, “I’m happy. I’ve been married, and had a career, and had my kids. I’ve seen the world, and I’ve known love and I’ve lived everything that I wanted to live.”
I wanted to ask him questions. I wanted to see inside his mind and I wanted to know everything about him.
He took his bags from the bag boy and I took mine. I walked 5 feet behind him straight out the door and into the parking lot. I followed him to the back of the parking lot before I realized I had passed my car. But I didn’t stop walking. I followed him right up to his stylish Lincoln and then kept on going. Then he turned around and looked at me. I stopped walking and looked back, waiting for… for I don’t know what. But I was waiting for it.
I didn’t have any words for him. There was so much I wanted to say, but not a word in the world to tell him. He spoke first. He said, “Good day.” He said it and gave a little wave with his left hand. A bare left hand.
I didn’t know what I was supposed to do so I said, “Good day,” and kept walking. I don’t even remember where I walked to, but I somehow found my way back to my car. My old Buick with its chipped paint and missing hubcap.
A bare left hand. A bare left hand…
I guess that’s what did it. The bare left hand. No wedding band. Just the scar he got from scraping his hand on the tree. Our tree. That old tree with letters carved into it. Meaningless now.
I got in my car and I sat there for a long time. I don’t know how long I was sitting there, but it was dark when I finally started the engine. I’m not sure what time it was. I guess I’m not sure of anything anymore.
Florida was beautiful that time of year. It’s beautiful every time of year. That’s why we came. Two old folks like us don’t belong in Massachusetts. My husband, with his arthritis, can’t even pick up a shovel anymore. Another year of snow would have been too much.
We loved Florida. Retirement suited us. When we pulled up the “Sold” sign from our little green front yard my husband turned to me and said, “April, welcome to the next chapter.” I love that about him. He’s always saying things like that. He sees life as a novel. A work of art to be experienced with an open mind and a thirst for adventure. Every step was a different chapter. At 19, the two of us had run headlong into that first chapter together faster than a horse with the whip on its back. Since then, the chapters have only gotten better. He’s always saying we were in the climax of our life. The big chapter. Every chapter is the big chapter to him. That’s why I love him. I haven’t regretted even a page of our novel together.
I moved a step up in the check out line on my painful hips and shaky knees. I remember thinking about how nice it was to listen to music while shopping. Things are so convenient these days. Even the most mundane tasks are made fun by all the technology and such. There was even a TV screen at every checkout stand repeatedly playing a show about saving money. After a few seconds I became mesmerized with the little screen. I swear, these things will never get old for me. I shook my head to pull myself out of my hypnosis and that’s when I saw him.
I took a second to breathe. Then I took another second. Breathing was all of a sudden the hardest thing to do in the world. How many years? After all those years, there he stood right in front of me, in the very next checkout line. Jacob Nue. Under all the changes in his appearance, he was there, exactly as he was in 1955. He wore glasses now. Simple, wire-rimmed glasses. He was always simple. It didn’t take much to please him. When we would go on picnics I needed only to pack him a ham sandwich, no mayonnaise, and he was happy. I always had my proper fixings and sides and he would say, “April,” and he’d shake his head. “April, you will be the death of me.” He was always saying that. “April, you will be the death of me.” At least once every day we spent together.
At least a year. Yes, it was at least a year. And then he was gone. Gone to pursue the things that I was not supposed to pursue with him. He had promised to write, and to call when he had the money for long distance. With his scholarship, he said, he’d be able to save the money. With his scholarship, he’d said, he’d even be able to afford the trip back and forth from Cambridge to Me. He’d said.
I never saw him again after the day he left. I kissed him goodbye. I had tears in my eyes, but not so many it would put a man off. Just enough to let him know how I felt. Alone. Sad. I’d miss him. I loved him. I love him.
And there he was. In front of me. Well dressed, of course. I knew he’d do well for himself. Of course he would. How could “a man of his caliber”, as his father always put it, do badly?
I didn’t know what to do. Fifty-seven years ago I would have given my ticket to heaven to see him again. I’d have happily burned in hell forever for the chance to look at him again. To touch him again. To hear his voice again. And there he was, a vision from the devil himself answering my pleas. But it was 57 years too late. The devil is funny that way. He tortures you that way.
I guess it’s not so funny.
The cashier’s firm voice brought me back to the present. It’s funny. No one really ever gets angry with me anymore, just firm. I guess they figure I’m too old to take it. But it wasn’t an angry cashier I couldn’t take. What I couldn’t take was seeing Jacob standing 10 feet away from me. I was too old for this.
I wanted to strut right up to him and drawl, in an uncaring way, “Where were you?” I wanted to saunter right up to his face and say, “I’m happy. I’ve been married, and had a career, and had my kids. I’ve seen the world, and I’ve known love and I’ve lived everything that I wanted to live.”
I wanted to ask him questions. I wanted to see inside his mind and I wanted to know everything about him.
He took his bags from the bag boy and I took mine. I walked 5 feet behind him straight out the door and into the parking lot. I followed him to the back of the parking lot before I realized I had passed my car. But I didn’t stop walking. I followed him right up to his stylish Lincoln and then kept on going. Then he turned around and looked at me. I stopped walking and looked back, waiting for… for I don’t know what. But I was waiting for it.
I didn’t have any words for him. There was so much I wanted to say, but not a word in the world to tell him. He spoke first. He said, “Good day.” He said it and gave a little wave with his left hand. A bare left hand.
I didn’t know what I was supposed to do so I said, “Good day,” and kept walking. I don’t even remember where I walked to, but I somehow found my way back to my car. My old Buick with its chipped paint and missing hubcap.
A bare left hand. A bare left hand…
I guess that’s what did it. The bare left hand. No wedding band. Just the scar he got from scraping his hand on the tree. Our tree. That old tree with letters carved into it. Meaningless now.
I got in my car and I sat there for a long time. I don’t know how long I was sitting there, but it was dark when I finally started the engine. I’m not sure what time it was. I guess I’m not sure of anything anymore.
