Seventy-Two Hours (3 page)

“Lisa, don’t do anything with him that you
don’t want to do.”

“I know. I’m not,” she told me as she blew
out a stream of smoke, dropped her cigarette to the ground, and crushed it
under her flip flop.

We could hear the parade starting up. I
followed her action with my cigarette and put it out before we parted ways and returned
to our families. I almost stopped dead when I saw that Chris had joined my
parents. Instead, I simply slowed my approach. My mother was sitting beside
my grandmother in matching woven lawn chairs. Chris was standing behind my
mother and massaging her shoulders. He was always doing nice things. My
mother laughed and patted his hand in response to something he said.

My father saw me first when he glanced over
his shoulder accessing the crowd. He asked where I had disappeared to which drew
Chris’ attention. He stopped what he was doing and came over to me already
looking like a college coed wearing his baggy workout shorts and a loose tank
top. The skin of his lean, muscular arms and legs colored a deep bronze from working
outdoors on his neighbor’s farm. His brown hair had also lightened from the
sun and gave him a very healthy appearance.

For those witnessing our greeting, it looked
as if nothing had changed between us. They wouldn’t have guessed that less
than 12 hours prior, I’d broken up with him. He bent down and kissed me
possessively before taking my hand and leading me away from the throng of
bystanders watching the parade.

“God, Jenny, you reek of cigarettes. You
know how I feel about your smoking,” he stated with disapproval.

I couldn’t meet his hazel eyes. “We broke up
last night. What are you doing here with my parents?”

“I thought maybe you would have changed your
mind,” he said, rolling a stone under the toe of his Nikes.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Why haven’t you told your parents yet?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. They’ll try to
talk me out of it.”

“You’re mom invited me over for a picnic.”

“Are you coming?”

“Maybe.”

I finally pulled my hand from his. “You
can’t. I don’t want you to. You have your own family.”

“I told my mom that you broke up with me.”

I felt a twinge of regret. Whatever my mixed
up emotions were making me feel for Chris, I still loved his parents. His
father, Conrad, was the county game warden and was always joking around and
full of energy. He teased me incessantly, but it was all good-natured fun.
Chris’ mother, Marti (short for Martha,) was a teller at the local bank. She
was prone to having a more serious side, but was always kind to me. Always
made me feel like a part of their family.

“What did she say?”

“She told me you were scared of losing me to
some college girl.”

I swallowed a lump. “You’re going to be in
Rochester and we’re too young to be tied down.”

He reached out and stroked my hair and said,
“But I love you.”

A tear rolled down my cheek. I brushed it
away with the back of my hand. “Chris, you don’t give me a minute to breathe.
You’re always with me. Smothering me.”

“You’re my girlfriend and I want to be with
you. You should want to be with me.”

“I’m 17 and you’re 18. Our lives are just beginning.”

“I thought we wanted the same things for our
future. To be together.”

“We’re not supposed to be connected at the
hip. We’re still kids.”

His jaw clenched. He swallowed and
compressed his lips as he tried to maintain his composure.

“You don’t do anything with your friends
anymore. Not even Scott.”

“Do you love me, Jenny?”

What was wrong with me if I said no? He was the
most beautiful boy at school. Thoughtful. Smart. Funny. Respectful.
Attentive and romantic. He was the complete package. Voted most likely to
succeed. Prom king. I knew I was the envy of a few girls from Chris’ class
and a few from my own for going out with him. When word got out that we were
broken up, he wouldn’t be at a loss for female attention.

“Do we even know what love is?”

“Just answer me. Damn it.”

I took a deep breath and said what I didn’t
want to say, “Yes.” I wasn’t lying. I did love him. Only then, by verbally
admitting my feelings, he would assume we were going to pick up from where we’d
left off.

And that’s exactly what happened. He draped
his arm around my waist and drew me against his tall form.

“Things will get better. We’ll have a little
space while I’m away at college. All couples go through rough patches, Jenny,”
he told me against my ear. “You’ll see. I’ll try to give you breathing room.
I promise.”

Before the parade ended, I was wearing his
class ring on my left ring finger again. The purple yarn I’d used to size it
down to fit my finger still wrapped around the bottom half.

Present Day

I’d been sitting on the large dock listening to
the water lap rhythmically against the shore for the better part of an hour. A
relaxing sound for many. Sail boats and motor boats passed by with their crew
members offering friendly waves to me. Warm summer breezes rustled through the
leaves in the trees. It was all quite lovely. But even with my attempt at
turning lemons into lemonade, I was still completely raw with a mixture of
emotions I was too overwhelmed to make sense of.

I hadn’t heard his approach so when he said,
“I made dinner,” I jumped.

“I’m not hungry.” I rubbed my bare arms as
if a chill swept through me. One hadn’t. It was only an outlet for nervous
energy.

“You can’t stay out here all night.”

“Sure I can. That isn’t my plan. Just until
you’ve gone to bed,” I replied as I swung my dangling legs back and forth with my
feet hovering over the water by 18 inches or so. It made me wonder how deep
the water was below me.

“Jen, I don’t know what I’ve done. Will you
tell me? I really don’t,” he said from behind me.

“It’s hard for you to believe, isn’t it?” I
said dryly. “Maybe it’s all me.”

“I can’t fix what I’ve done if you won’t tell
me what it is.”

I didn’t answer him. Where would I begin?
He made it sound so simple. He was an engineer. When a problem arose, he was
accustomed to troubleshooting, overcoming, and moving on. Life wasn’t always
so easy.

“Do you love him?”

I gave his question some thought as it had
crossed my mind before. “I don’t know,” I answered and then shrugged as
certainty hit me. “No. No, I don’t.”

“Then why?”

“Why not?”

“What the hell kind of answer is that?” he
said with a flash of anger.

“It wasn’t an answer. I handed you a
question in return.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, I heard crickets
starting their evening chorus as day slowly bowed out to allow night its turn at
center stage. I looked over my shoulder thinking he may have walked away, but
he was there. Hands shoved in his pockets. Pinched expression.

“Nothing? That’s what I expected,” I stated
as I returned my attention to the lake.

I was completely taken by surprise when he
came from behind and shoved me forward into the cold water. Not prepared with
a full breath of air beforehand, I kicked and hand paddled until I broke the
surface. The water had to have been at least eight feet deep. I gasped and
choked as the water that had made its way up my nose and down my throat
interfered with plain old breathing. I swam in the direction of the dock and its
ladder. Once my hands made contact with the aluminum railings, my anger rose
as quickly as I did. Like a cork popping up. I was enraged. Seething as a
long string of expletives shot out from my mouth. I said things no parent
would even want to know their child’s teacher was capable of saying. And as I
spewed those words and phrases, Chris smiled smugly, overly pleased with
himself for his childish actions. The more I bitched, the more he smiled. I
grabbed the shoes up from the decking that I’d removed before sitting down
earlier. As I headed to terra ferma, he scrambled off the dock afraid of
retaliation.

“Looks like you’re going inside earlier than
planned,” he declared as I strode by him.

“Go to hell.”

“Oh, Jen, don’t go away mad.”

“Fuck you.”

It was hard pulling off irate and indignant
when my clothing was sticking to me like a second skin from my unplanned swim,
but I did my best. Once inside the front door of the cottage, I stripped down
to my bra and panties, tossing my dripping capris and pullover out onto the
porch. They landed with a loud and wet whomp. I’d go out and hang them on the
railing to dry after I dried off and changed. And maybe, just maybe, I’d
commit murder.

Rather than simply drying off, I’d decided to
take a shower and wash the lake off of me. It also served to calm the urge I
had to maim and or murder. Not by much mind you.

Chris must have had a different outcome in
mind for our weekend at the cottage. That was more than evident when I
searched the bag he’d packed for suitable sleeping attire. I wanted coverage
and comfort. Chris had packed for romantic and revealing. That wasn’t going
to happen. So I did what any determined woman in my position would do. I silently
trekked across the hall, went into his room, and raided his bag. I found light
weight pajama pants with a drawstring waist and a t-shirt. Perfect. Towel
wrapped tightly in place, I sprinted back to my tiny bedroom and dressed.
Chris was 6’3” to my 5’7” so I had to roll the bottoms of the pants up two-cuff
turns and then the fit wasn’t so bad; baggy, flowing, and comfortable.
Completely dowdy.

Chris was seated in front of the gas
fireplace, reading glasses on, and working at his laptop. A common sight to
see
when
he was home.

As I helped myself to one of his beers from
the fridge, he said, “Those are mine.”

Knowing he wasn’t referring to the Amstel
Light in my hand I replied, “My bag was lacking acceptable sleeping attire so I
improvised.”

“What am I supposed to sleep in?”

“I don’t care.”

“You sly devil,” he retorted with a chuckle.

I set the bottle down rather loudly. “Excuse
me?”

“If you want me naked for bedtime, all you have
to do is ask.”

The noise that escaped from my mouth couldn’t
be described as alarmed or inhibited. No. Not after being married for such a
long time to the man making the statement. There was too much familiarity
involved for it to be that. The noise was ire. Plain and simple. With a
splash of loathing in the mix. Not words remotely associated with a romantic
weekend away.

A self-satisfied smile played over my face.
Apparently, he hadn’t been upstairs to see our sleeping arrangements. That
would piss him off once he got that message.

I took a long pull from the bottle. And then
another. It seemed to invade my empty stomach with the force Sherman used to
overtake Atlanta. I finished the beer and rather ceremoniously tossed it into
the blue recycling tote.

A quiet evening would be nice. I made my way
over to the bookcase and perused the spines for titles. The library certainly gave
me an idea about the personality of our landlord. Old paperback editions of
Louis L’Amour, Isaac Asimov, Michael Crichton, and Tom Clancy. A very
masculine collection. I pulled forward a promising title and looked at the
cover of, “The Man From The Broken Hills.” I’d never read L’Amour, but the
Wild West theme appealed to the history teacher in me. After helping myself to
another beer from the fridge, I settled into a Mission-style arm chair with
luxurious leather covered cushions. I sat sideways with my legs up and over
the opposite arm and cracked open the aged paper cover. The title page had an
inscription that read, “Curt, Happy 12
^th
Birthday! Keep reading and
books will bring the world to you. Love, Grandpa Al,” and it was dated August
10, 1977. I traced over the faded blue ink with my fingertip. It made me
smile as I thought of the excited pre-teen boy accepting the novel from his
grandfather. Did he read it in one sitting? So into the story unfolding that
at bedtime he snuck a flashlight to bed? Or did he draw out the story by
reading a chapter a day? Savoring it slowly while he used the rest of the day
to daydream over his own Wild West adventures?

“Are you coming to bed?”

Later, I shook myself out of my reading
reverie and noted I’d read to page 64; carried away on the outlaw trail with
Milo Talon. Chris was up, his laptop closed and setting on a footstool, and
the gas fire extinguished.

A yawn escaped before I could respond with,
“Sure.”

He switched off the last light as I made my
way up the open stairs and headed for bed. It wasn’t until I closed my door
that I heard him swear from the other side and then a bang as he must have
pounded his fist against the wall. It was wrong of me to smile at his
consternation, but there it was. I did. Made my impromptu dip in the lake a
little more bearable. Only a little.