― Charlotte Eriksson
Saturday Rites
We don't do well with ambiguity and that's why we mistrust dreams.
Asleep, we're closed off from others' feelings and alone with our own thoughts and emotions.
But we don't trust ourselves either―we look to others for confirmation and that's why we mistrust even our basic instincts especially if others don't agree with what we're experiencing.
I was musing about this and my present situation. I felt lonely because there was no one else I could confide in who wouldn't think I was crazy.
No one sees dead people unless they're deranged. That's the common sense point of view that prevails despite what your senses perceive.
I'm inhabiting a shadowy territory that no one else except Mollie shares with me and right now she's not speaking. Sometimes hours pass when I can't even catch a glimpse of her―it all seems so elusive and frustrating.
It's a gloomy morning and raining outside. The road is a dark skin shivering with goosebumps and rain circles pulsate and melt in the puddles.
Out back, the misty woods is waiting for me but the rain persists and I'll have to put off my survival shelter research for another day.
I resign myself to sitting with my laptop by the fire and revising my manuscript. It's ironic that I'm imagining surviving in a post-apocalyptic world when I'm struggling to cope with this one.
Writing is like dreaming and several hours pass without my noticing. When I finally look at the clock I realize it's past four. It's Saturday and the local market where I shop for fresh produce closes at five.
I was planning on steak and salad for supper, so I decide I'd better make a trip to purchase the necessary items. A change of scene might even be good for me―it's easy to become housebound and lose touch with what's happening around me.
On the plus side, the rain has stopped and I might even be able to squeeze in an after-dinner walk with Star before it gets dark.
I head off to the market in my SUV, passing by Natalie's house, apparently deserted today. I know she takes craft classes on Saturdays and I curse under my breath realizing it would have been a perfect opportunity to walk with Star without being waylaid by her.
Natalie's a nice woman and I feel guilty about avoiding her, but our lives are on different tracks and what she needs or wants from me isn't going to happen.
She's stuck in a time warp where I keep walking past her house and she keeps coming out and we're both dissatisfied. We both need a life with someone other than ourselves, but how do I tell her?
We're like hamsters on a wheel trying to go somewhere and making no progress.
I wonder what Im doing here. Is it futile trying to resurrect my life with Mollie? Do I see myself as some tragic hero in revolt against the gods, like Prometheus, trying to blur the line between mortals and immortals?
In a way that would account for Natalie's role in my life. She's like Pandora in the myth who started out as a shy maiden but was turned into a troublesome woman by Zeus to punish Prometheus for defying the established order of things.
In a way, that myth describes me too as an overreacher, not for stealing fire from the gods but in trying cross the line between the living and the dead.
The gods want to tantalize me with a flesh and blood woman who can fulfill my physical needs when I'm so empty inside that it's an insult to me.
It's four-thirty when I arrive at the market and Joe, the owner, is in the process of putting away things.
He calls to me. "You're shopping late today, Mr. Cameron. Busy day?"
"Yeah, I was working on a manuscript and time sort of got away on me. I need salad fixings."
"Don't buy anything on display, it's too tired. Give me your list and I'll get fresh produce from the fridge."
I thank him and hand over my list and he disappears into the back of the store.
"Hey, Ned! I thought it was you."
It's Jim, my neighbour, who spotted me through the window.
"Hey Jim, doing some last minute shopping too?"
"Had to pick up some items for Carrie―you know women, they see you enjoying a Saturday and suddenly make a list to keep you busy."
"Married life," I smile.
"C'mon, let's get a quick drink―my treat."
"Sure," I say, as Joe appears with my order bagged and I hand him a twenty and wave off the change.
There's a small pub in the mall called The Pheasant Plucker and we get a table there.
"Boys' night out?" the blonde waitress smiles.
"Well, you can join us when you're off work," Jim flirts.
She just shakes her head and shows off her wedding band.
"That's a shame," he teases, "could have been a fun evening."
I had been reconsidering my opinion of Jim in the light of what Jill told me. I almost forgave him what might have been a one-off hitting on Jill, but this episode with the waitress says different. Jim is a lech, no doubt about it.
He's chugged back his draft and signals the girl for another round, then gives me a glassy-eyed smile, "So, she's taken―Oh well, no harm, no foul."
I'm wondering what Carrie would think of that.
He leans in to confide in me and I immediately stiffen. No way I want to be the beneficiary of any boozy confessions.
"You know why I'm being generous and treating you to beer? You won a bet for me and I'm hoping you'll do it again for a bigger payoff next time."
"How's that?" I ask, but don't really care to hear, but he's going to tell me anyway regardless of what I say.
"The boys in the neighbourhood made a bet who'd get to first base with Jill―saw you two the other day in the woods and she bringing you a beer. Congratulations, you lucky stiff," he says, tipping his glass to clink mine.
"Sorry to disappoint you, Jim, but sometimes a beer is just a beer."
He waves off my reply. "Not with women, Ned my boy, next thing you know she'll be inviting you in to fix a fuse and who knows where it will go from there."
"It'll go nowhere like this conversation," I say, standing up and leaving.
"Aha! So I hit a nerve. That's okay, Ned, be all gallant, but you're making me a pile of cash, so I forgive you."
I stomp out with my bag of produce and his laughter ringing in my ears. The waitress gives me a pained smile when I pass her. I sigh as if to say, he's an ass―don't let him bug you.
But he's bugging me big time.
He's the kind of man that makes you ashamed of your gender, but he'll go home to his wife and in the morning won't even remember.
And I feel sorry for Jill and Natalie and the waitress who's an innocent bystander. And I just want to go home to Mollie but today that prospect seems lost forever.