Stories Index
Anniversary
Trumansburg, New York
May, 1997
My company finally expels me from England on April Fool’s Day. I leave covertly via Concorde, but before going I phone ahead to The West Wind back in the states and make reservations for the first weekend of May. Gwynn Anachronism shines over international lines.
“It will be so completely marvelous to have you and Wendy again,” she says.
“No, it will be Karen this time,” I tell her. “We’re celebrating our two year anniversary together.”
“How sweet,” she says. “She is such a lovely girl, too. Whatever happened to that nice young man she was with last time. Jones or something, wasn’t it?”
“They’re divorced.”
“How nice,” she says, dripping with custodial saccharine.
She keeps me occupied for the better part of an hour, telling me all sorts of business and family details I will never find useful and by the time we hang up, my flight is ready to board. I call Tampa somewhere over Greenland and surprise Karen with the news.
“Can you get the time off?” I ask her.
“Not a problem,” she says. “I’ll have a couple of surprises for you too.” She provides just enough detail to melt the receiver into a bubbling mass of silly putty.
And so on the evening of the first of May, Karen and I converge to the West Wind, Karen from Tampa via her folks place in Deposit, NY, where she has conveniently managed to schedule an ever-so-brief visit, myself from Rochester, via London where I was so unceremoniously booted. Karen arrives first and waits for me under the dark circle of trees just behind the inn.
I pull into the narrow driveway and park next to her. She peers at me through the windshield, her face glowing in the faint wisps of moonlight and whispers, “I love you, Don.” Her voice carries through both cars and echoes through the interior of my anxious Caravan, and as I whisper those words back, I find her there next to me, transported in an instant to my side. My ever-present chaperone, the Van, turns the key in the ignition and tunes to just the right radio station where we listen to Unchained Melody. It closes the blinds, produces a glowing, scented candle from the dashboard and a light spring mist. We fall into each other’s arms and kiss with a passion worthy of months of separation, and with no other thought in the world we undress each other and make quiet love on the reclined front seat.
Some time later we relax, my head in Karen’s lap. She looks off into the distance and says nothing for a long time, her thoughts vaulted someplace far away. I ask if anything’s wrong and she says only, “I love you so much, you have no idea.”
“And I love you. Why so quiet.”
Tears well up in her eyes. She wipes them away and says softly, “I’m just a little afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” I ask.
She smiles at me and starts getting dressed. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get inside.”
We walk holding hands up the brick pathway leading to the door. I think the flowers recognize me as they cautiously duck out of the way, thinking someone is going to stash another live cigarette butt in their midst. As we reach the door, Karen looks at me and says mysteriously, “No matter what, remember that I love you.”
“Okay,” I say, confused. “But what’s going to happen except we have a great weekend and have passionate sex on the hour?”
“Nothing, I guess,” she says and rings the doorbell.
As expected, we hear the opening five notes of Nights in White Satin in digital doorbell splendor. We look at each other, lost in time as proprietor Gwynn Anachronism greets us, as always awash in wide smiles, Teflon good cheer and misty May Day pantheism.
“Welcome, welcome,” she says. “So nice to have you back. Nice to see you again, Karen. We’ve reserved the Honeymoon Suite as you requested, Mr. Bacon. Please come in and join our little party.”
We both sigh as Gwynn leads us through a countyfied foyer into the large sitting room where another couple is randomly sampling various vegan hors d’oeuvres. The woman looks up, recognizes Karen and before Gwynn can provide the necessary introductions the two warmly embrace. I shoot a puzzled look to Karen who provides a sheepish explanation. “You remember Jean? I forgot to mention that her and her fiancée would be joining us this weekend. I’m sorry.”
“Not a problem,” I say using Karen’s pet phrase.
“Well, it’s so nice you all know one another,” Gwynn says diplomatically.
Jean’s boyfriend steps forward and says to Karen and me, “We haven’t met.” He takes Karen’s hand and shakes it warmly.
“Karen and Don, this is my nephew Ron. He has a landscaping business in Florida and he has graciously volunteered to fix up the gardens at the inn. Wasn’t that nice of him.”
“Swell,” I say summoning some ersatz enthusiasm.
“Didn’t even have to ask. Called out of the blue, didn’t you Ron.”
“That’s right Aunt Gwynn. What are relatives for if you can’t take advantage of them.”
He laughs as if this were hilarious, but it is an honest, good-natured laugh. He looks vaguely familiar. We shake hands; his grip is powerful and sincere. Jean stands by his side, grinning and nibbling a cheddar cheese cube. She is considerably taller than my humble five foot five inches, has long blond hair that hangs loosely down to the mid of her back, and the figure of a distance runner. Her eyes shine with impossible shades of green as if they have seen everything there is to see and somehow managed to store all of it in two tiny irises. Her voice glistens with energy as she volunteers some vital personal information.
“We’re getting married next month. On his boat, aren’t we Ronnie?”
“That’s right, sweetie,” he says and turns to Karen. “So Jean tells me you’re from Tampa too.”
“Spring Hill,” Karen says.
“Well isn’t that a coincidence, isn’t it Jean? I have a business nearby, in New Port Richey.”
“Really,” she says. “Who would have thought.”
“Well it’s nice to meet you Karen,” he says taking her hand a second time, “and if you ever need your garden taken care of, give us a call.” He hands her a business card which Karen stashes in her purse.
“Well, you never know,” she says as if vaguely interested.
We chit-chat and snack, the ever hovering Gwynn making sure we have plenty to eat and drink and somehow cleverly barring our escape with endless stories of her hippie days in San Francisco. Among other things we learn not to take blotter acid with Apple Wine, and how well endowed the members of Iron Butterfly are (or were). Ron and Karen trade Spring Hill tidbits, while Jean and I make nervous small-talk. She carries this perpetual enthusiasm about her like a halo making her altogether too likable.
When we finally say our good-nights, Ron calls out to us, “Say, we’re going on a little hike through Taughannock Falls Park tomorrow morning. Care to join us?”
The words “No thanks” form on my lips, but before they escape Karen says, “That will be fun, won’t it? Don loves to hike, but he always gets lost.”
“That’s right,” I say politely. “I love to hike. Every chance I get.”
Ron whips a creased tourist pamphlet out of his back pocket and says, “Not a problem — I’ve got a map.”
Gwynn promises box lunches for all and sends us off to bed, a CD of the Moody Blues Greatest Hits pushing us up the stairs and into our bedrooms. Karen undresses, climbs into bed nude, and is sound asleep before I finish brushing my teeth.
The four of us stare up at the falls. Miles high it is, and I wonder out loud why it isn’t in some record book. Jean whips out her handy travel guide and reads, “Says here ‘at 215 feet, Taughannock Falls is the tallest Falls east of the Rockies.’ Gee, it sure looks higher.”
“Read the fine print,” suggests Ron.
“Here it is. Isn’t this interesting. Says here that when viewed by lovers on the second of May of odd-numbered years it’s as high as Victoria Falls in Africa. Isn’t that sweet!”
“Another fantastic coincidence,” quips Ron and he suggests we all hike to the top.
Fortunately, an elevator is handy for most of the way, and we have only to walk the remaining quarter mile or so, up a well-kept path lined with wildflowers. Even so, the journey takes several hours and we have our box lunch for an early dinner instead. We spread out under a tree near the top of the falls; a brilliant rainbow radiates by our side, spraying us with intense reds, blues and gold. We shake the color out of our hair and pour Chardonnay all around.
I toast Karen, “To us, love. Happy anniversary.”
“To us,” she says, her eyes flitting between myself and Ron. He toasts Jean as well, which leads to kissing and soon the four of us are wrestling our mates in the sparkling colors and setting sun.
Jean checks her watch. “We’d better get going,” she says. “It will be dark soon and your aunt will die if we miss one of her fabled dinners.” This seems like a good idea, so we impolitely chug the rest of the wine and start back down.
The path down is not the same path we took up, and no elevator is to be found. After hiking an hour or so, the path forks and we stand there like cartoon characters mulling over the problem.
Finally Ron has an idea. “Say, I have an idea. Let’s have a race down, mixed doubles! Karen, you and I take the...”, he thinks for a moment. Karen pipes up, “The path on the left. Jean, you better help Don, he can’t find his way out of a driveway.”
“Neither can I,” says Ron. “Must be a guy thing.”
With the visions of bucolic lovemaking quickly evaporating, I say meekly, “Well, I thought maybe Karen and I could...”
“We’d get lost. You always get lost.”
Ron says, “Meet you for dinner in an hour. Go!” and he and Karen bolt down the hill and are soon out of sight.
Jean leans into me and says, “Come on, hurry.” We sprint down the other path and within half an hour arrive back at the West Wind where dinner awaits.
“Pass the salt.”
I do so, slower than expected. Jean takes the shaker like a sacramental. It levitates in her hand.
“What a cute trick,” says Gwynn between mouthfuls of tepid Mulligatawny soup.
We eat in silence. We play a game of Dominoes. We chat about the weather which has turned from sunny, to bleak, to a cold drizzle. We watch the evening news. Gwynn makes us cocoa and goes to bed with hopeful advice not to worry, that it’s easy to get lost in the hills, at night, in the rain.
Karen and Ron show up about midnight. She goes upstairs without a word, Ron sneezes and mumbles something about this being a bad idea, and how much he misses Florida, and if he ever decides to hike with “her” again, someone should kick him in the ass. He’s dripping wet, cold and by the sound of his voice and overall disposition, thoroughly miserable. He kisses Jean, apologizes, and places a strong hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, man. I guess I messed up your vacation.”
“What happened?”
He plops down on the couch and grabs Jean’s unfinished cocoa. “Well, the path turned back up, then forked a few more times and before we knew it, we were back to the top of the falls.” He sneezes again then gulps the remainder of the tepid cocoa. Jean tenderly rubs his back; I can hear her thoughts: “Oh, poor Ronnie.” He continues his sad tale.
“So by now it’s dark and Karen has this self-proclaimed built-in radar that’s supposed to get us back, but instead we end up on some road about ten miles away and have to hike the rest of the way back, and all this after she twists her ankle. I’m really sorry, man.” He draws Jean close and says, “Come on babe. I need a hot bath.”
I find Karen shivering in bed in a sweat suit, massaging her sore ankle. She looks wretched.
“Sorry. I ruined our last night together, didn’t I.”
“Maybe I was a little jealous,” I say. “Maybe I thought... well, did anything, you know, happen?”
She looks at me without expression, her face drawn, her eyes a wall. I wish I hadn’t asked the question.
I sit beside her and hold her hand; the cold seeps into mine. I kiss her chilled lips softly; she barely kisses back then lies back down, pulling the covers up to around her neck.
“Are you okay?” I ask. She nods then turns over, skootches under the blankets, and is sound asleep before I finish brushing my teeth.