[Critique Group 1] Marcia's September submission

[Marcia Wick]

1308 words

 

An Unlikely Friendship

 

Eventually, my stubborn streak kicked in. I had to clear my head.  At first
light, I freed myself from the covers and dressed.

 

Layered up for the cold, I loaded my cross country ski gear into the trunk
and drove my old Chevy to the Lake Holland parking lot. My breath caught the
morning light. The snow squeaked under my shoes. Perched on my bumper, I
pulled homemade nylon gaiters over my Levis, switched into leather ski
boots, and stepped into my new Nordic fish scale skis. The fresh fallen snow
was undisturbed. Alone in the quiet, I welcomed the solitude. My tortuous
thoughts were more than enough to keep me company. 

 

I pushed forward. Kick and glide. Kick and glide. The rhythm of the sport is
the secret, I knew. Kick and glide, kick and think, kick and question, kick
and cry. "Don't give up. Should I leave? Don't give up. Should I stay?" An
endless litany of doubt and regret echoed in my head as my red skis cut
tracks into the trail. Abruptly, thankfully, my twisted thoughts were
interrupted.

 

"Claudia? Claudia, is that you?"

 

My solitude disturbed, I turned to see who was crunching through the snow to
catch up with me. There weren't many people I was in a mood to see.
Certainly, no one I knew would be skiing around Lake Holland that chill
morning. 

 

"Veronica?" From a distance, I recognized the big hair of the furniture
factory lady. As she glided closer, I saw she was outfitted in traditional
woolen knickers with Tyrolean argyle socks. My God, did she have to outclass
me even on the trail?

 

"Wait up, let me catch up. I want to talk," Veronica said.

 

Too late, she'd made me. What choice did I have? I froze mid-stride,
although I wanted to shoot off the trail and hide in the woods. 

 

At my side, Veronica guzzled from a water bottle and then launched into a
conversation like we were long lost friends. 

 

"Wasn't the Harvest Dance a blowout? I was hoping to talk with you after
dancing with Robbie, but you disappeared like Cinderella at dark." 

 

Punch. In one breath, Veronica hit me with a reminder about her and Robbie.

 

"I don't like driving after dark," I mumbled.

 

"By the way, wow, what a great editorial you wrote for the Breeze last
month. You really stirred up the old town!" 

 

Pow. With her second breath, Veronica again hit pay dirt, calling attention
to the second thing I was struggling to forget. 

 

Desperate to change the subject, I glided ahead and asked, "You're not from
around here, are you?"

 

"Gosh, no." Veronica kept pace with me stride for stride. "You could say I'm
not really from anywhere. Mom and I never settled in one place. Each time
she married someone new, we moved. By sixth grade, I'd been in six schools.
That's when Mom put me into a boarding school."

 

"Boarding school?"

 

"It was lots better for both of us that way. For the first time, I lived in
one place long enough to make friends, and Mom didn't have to schlep me
around like luggage."

 

"Like luggage?" I was incredulous.

 

"Mom was a soap opera star. She liked money and men more than kids,"
Veronica explained. "A clinging child wasn't exactly conducive to romance
and globe-trotting. When I grew old enough to attract a man's eye, it was
time to ship me off to boarding school. At least, I no longer had to behave
like a good girl for every man Mom brought home. At boarding school, I
figured out what I wanted for myself, and it wasn't to please Mom."

 

Amazed, I listened to Veronica's story unfold. We matched pace trekking
uphill while she babbled on with her edition of True Confessions.

 

"Mom's in Italy now, I think. I don't keep up. She's on husband number nine
or ten, but who's counting? If there's one thing Mother taught me, it's to
never marry."

 

"Never marry? I thought the rule was 'never divorce.' That's what my parents
taught me despite their decades of wedded misery," I shared.

 

Veronica hooted without inhibition, her marble blue eyes turned up to the
sky as she laughed. Dislodged by the warming sun or perhaps her loud cackle,
a clump of snow plopped onto my head from a branch above us. Bent over, I
joined Veronica howling in hilarity.

. "

 

I swiped the melting snow off my face with a sweatshirt sleeve and said,
"Well, I can see we don't have much in common."

 

"Oh, but you're wrong," she giggled like a conspiring middle schooler.
"We're both young single women stuck in a small town alone. At least, we can
hook up and have fun."

 

"But aren't you dating Robbie? I thought."

 

"Gosh, no. I make it a policy never to date the locals," she said. The
secret is to sleep only with married men from out of town. Single men are
controlling. They think once they get you into bed they own you. And locals
tell everyone your business. Besides, married men are better sex partners.
They don't kiss and tell. If you fill in a gap in their marriage, they're
grateful. When old wifey is too tired or has a headache, no worry. Let the
old gal sleep. I give men what they need without having to cook and clean
for them, too. It's a win, win, win."

 

"Win, win? Don't you worry what might happen if the wife discovers the
affair?"

 

"Not at all. The sales reps, architects, photographers, and designers I
sleep with are out of town on business. After the obligatory phone call to
say 'good night' to the kids and 'I love you' to the wife, we get down to
funny business. No harm. No foul. No one gets hurt; no man moves in and
tries to run my life."

 

This was a new attitude for me. Have your cake and eat it, too? It wasn't
what I'd been taught, but it sounded intriguing.

 

"Listen," Veronica advised, "I wouldn't wait around for Robbie to invite you
for a roll in the hay. He's already rolled most of the women around here.
You can do better."

 

"Well, I've got bigger problems than Robbie." I shuffled the tips of my skis
counter-clockwise to back track to the car. I wasn't ready to share my story
with Veronica, that I was being blackballed by most everyone in town.

 

"Hey Claudia, what's up? I'm sorry. If you like Robbie, go for it. I just
thought you should know a thing or two about people around here. Talk to me,
girl."

 

"That editorial you liked so much got me into trouble with my boss, with
Robbie, with the mayor, most everyone in town. I may get fired or quit and
go back to Colorado."

 

"Quit? Why? Please! If a man pisses someone off at work, does he gets fired?
No, he gets a promotion for showing he has balls. Well, women have balls,
too. You should be asking for a raise."

 

Veronica's suggestion produced a new round of laughter, releasing the
tension I'd been holding in my chest for weeks, since seeing the frown on
Mr. K's face. At the parking lot, I exchanged business cards with my
unlikely friend, our home phone numbers handwritten on the back.

 

"Let's 'do' lunch, darling," Veronica quipped like a TV star. We drove off
in different directions after promising to meet up at the factory open house
in February.

 

Determined not to compound my anxiety with wine that night, I still tossed
in bed. Did I have balls? Could I stand up to criticism? Would my writing
hold up to scrutiny? Could I regain my reputation and prove myself as a fair
observer of life in small town USA without compromising my values? 

 

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