55

 

       JOHN PLUMMER

 

    It's a nice day for a picnic.  Maybe we should have had one.

    Oh sure, the two of us.  Why bother?

    I could have called some people.  The Lehman's might've come. They

    John!  It's Labor Day!  Nobody's home.  Everybody goes somewhere on Labor Day or they have their own picnics.  MaryLee told me they were going to Altoona.  They have a family.

    Except us.  We aren't going anywhere.  We aren't having a picnic.

    Well, it just doesn't make sense for the two of us.

    I know.  There is no point in arguing.  She is right.  I lift the curtain again.

    Picnics are for families.  Get togethers.

    And what are we?

    We're a couple.  We're a lovely couple.  The toast of the town.

    Uh huh.  The summer is gone, and I still haven't gotten to the willows.  Maybe in the spring.  Another car--a little one--pulls up.  Art trots out from the back porch to greet whoever it is.  It must be Susan and Wes.  Does Susan have a little car?  I ask over my shoulder.  It seems to me that they do.

    Let me see.  She pushes ahead of me.  Yeah, that's them.  Who else would it be?  You know all the rest of the cars.

    It could have been somebody else.  I didn't

    Who?  You know Art.  Family only.          

    I nod.  I know Art.

    Why don't you come away from there?  It doesn't do any good

    I know, I say, I know.  The curtain falls.  We sit like that for a while, the silence awkward and almost funny.  Her hand is there beside me on the couch, but I really can't reach out and cover it with my own.  Times are when you don't want comfort, when you want to be allowed your anger or your self pity.  And that's all it is.

    You wouldn't want to be there anyway, she offers.  It's like a housewarming too.  That's what Lorraine said.  It'll be the first time the whole family's got together since they moved up here.  It's the first time they've seen it since it's done.  You wouldn't want to have to go through all that, would you?

    She is wrong.  I would want that.  I do want that.  Anything.  No, I say.  She is trying to be nice about this, trying to be comforting.  I smile at her.  No, that would be a little too much to take, wouldn't it?  Guided tours and lectures on the merits of insulated glass.  I can see it now!  Step by step instructions on how to save a dying house from the grips of age.

    She looks like she might laugh, but it's a weak possibility.  I guess I give myself away; my heart isn't in it.  Her eyes hold a sympathy that I don't see often.  I feel myself smiling to comfort her.

    Someone laughs outside.  It sounds like Eric.

    It's Art's house now.  I didn't think it ever really would be.  I really didn't think it could be.  But it is.  Any sign of the old place is gone.  It's like an ugly duckling stuffed back in the egg.  It must still be in there under all that brick and aluminum and shiny new glass--but I don't know where.  I wouldn't know where to start to look.  It used to be sort of a--I don't know--a sign, a monument to the past for me.  It was the last ugly old house up here.  Now it's an ugly new house.  And it's Art's.  I can't look at it without seeing the old porch and the old windows, but something tells me that I won't be able to do that for long.  It's like seeing someone with glasses for the first time; you can't get used to it, but in no time you can't remember what they looked like before.  And you lose something in there somewhere.  And you don't know what it is; that's part of it.  No more talks in that cramped old kitchen.  No more of that canned orange drink over cards or the Four Roses from that square bottle when we were alone at night and the wind was coming in around the kitchen window.  And no more going over there before work in the morning, afraid of what I might find.  Lorraine'll have that now.  No, no more of that.  It's Art's house now.

    I reach over and pat her hand.

    She smiles and pushes herself up.  Why don't I just get some stuff out of the icebox, and we'll have a picnic out back.  You can get the grill out, and I'll have the stuff ready by the time it's hot.

    I almost say no, but I don't.  Okay, I get up too.

    I have some of those garlic pickles you like.  The kitchen door swings closed behind her.  They were on sale, and we haven't had them since that last time you belched all night.

    I walk to the window and raise the curtain a little with my finger.  Okay, I call to her, And maybe later I'll just go over and say hello.  I haven't seen Susie for a long time.

    It is quiet for minute and then the door opens.  She is ready to say something, but we look at each other, and she stops.  Okay, she says,  Maybe I'll go along.