Bee's Wing

Bee’s Wing

Hairdressers always seem to go for the pun. Pike downshifted and rounded the sharp bend past The Cutting Corner. Marketing, he thought. Double that entendre.

On either side of the road now were fairways, greens, a few golfers, then empty tennis courts and the battlements of the Revolutionary Fort. At the Maritime Academy, he turned, easing down the elm-vaulted street that gently descended through the brick and clapboard village all the way to the harbor. Only then did he notice the small bee at the far edge of the dashboard. Lifeless. Too late to save.

Couples with infants in backpacks, couples with canes moved from gallery to gift shop, crossing without looking as if under some spell of cobblestone and salt air.

The quaint Maine village was crowded. It was just past noon, Friday July third. This weekend inaugurated peak summer season and parking was scarce, but Pike found a space up a side street past the drab green colonial inn. By the time he got down to the dock he was late. But then after 24 years what were a few minutes?

The weather was not perfect for sailing—there was little breeze, yet hardly a cloud. The gulls worked their wings to navigate this tranquil air, abundant sun and blue sky that had been absent all June.

With nervous anticipation, Pike scanned the harbor for a 36’ ketch. A small sloop was moored at the dock and two motorboats, alongside the Academy’s historic sailing vessel Bowdoin, used for training. But he saw no sign of them.

Pike’s cousin DG was back east from LA, to see his friend Susan for the first time in years. Together they drove up to visit Ron and Shirley, who had retired to Maine seven years ago. Now the four were sailing (or more likely motoring) across the bay, planning to rendezvous with Pike for lunch at The Old Wharf.

The tide was dead low. From parking lot level, now a good 10’ above the mooring docks, Pike could see two masts, the forward much taller than the aft, moving in tandem out beyond a barge. Ron and Shirley’s ketch, he thought. She emerged into view, her sails furled. There were four on deck: two together at the helm, one sitting in the aft cockpit seat and then Jesus, that must be DG, a hand on the mainmast as they motor in toward the mooring floats.

In one moment, tentative recognition transforms to certainty. It is DG. And DG points at him. Connection.

As he watches their approach, something in the distinctive attitude of DG’s posture triggers a dim memory. DG has a tremor. His right arm continually spasms and has since a childhood tonsillectomy complication.

Pike sees Ron’s apprehension, maneuvering a large boat in tight quarters, with inexperienced hands and an audience. Pike wants to be of assistance and bracing himself on the handrails, eases down the steep ramp.

The ketch motors to the float. Ron instructs DG to drop the fenders while he cuts the engine. With the harbormaster’s help they tie down the spring line and make the bow and stern fast. DG jumps enthusiastically from the deck to greet Cousin Pike—a firm warm handshake with the wild right hand.

Introductions are made. Behind sunglasses and white flecks of sunscreen, Susan is pretty, slender, in her fifties. Shirley and Ron are spry as kids, aging together, shaped alike by time. And DG is leathered and layered, with silvering spiky burdock hair, cargo pants, athletic shoes and a big grin.

On the walk to The Old Wharf DG asks if Pike no longer drinks. “No herb either, am I right? How long has this been? So you basically have no vices.” Pike grimaces. “You should see inside my mind.”

Moving through the rough boarded interior of the restaurant, they file past the long polished bar while DG explains he’s also stopped drinking, though he examines the draft selection with interest. Then they emerge again into the vibrant midday light.

DG insists they sit right out over the harbor, beyond the canopy, in broad sunshine. “If no one minds, here, there’s enough room on the side shaded by the umbrella for the three of you. Cousin Pike and I will sit in the sun. Is that all right with you Pike?”

“You never used to be this difficult, DG.”

Twenty-four years ago, at Pike’s grandmother’s funeral was the last time they’d seen each other. Their grandmothers were sisters. Technically they’re second cousins, all agree after some discussion.

Pike basks in the luminous openness of old friendships, introducing his own tones to their spectrum. How much does he wish to share? Not the deep blue of winter. In fact, his last time at The Wharf was with Gwen and her sisters, not quite a year ago. Probably only two weeks before she told him it was over.

Though the deck is not crowded, service is remarkably slow. The young waitress confesses this is her first day, but there is so much catching up to do, it doesn’t seem to matter.

“I quit about two years ago,” DG explains. “The reason is because I’m a serious drinker. I like to drink. I don’t mean to excess, but I certainly enjoy more than one or two....And living in LA, one has to drive everywhere. So for this reason, I stopped. However, while I’m on vacation I’m indulging.”

The waitress has not committed the wide selection of microbrews to memory. Identifying the right choice requires description and discussion. Ron is actively involved in this selection process. Shirley gives him a little look. “You’re driving.”

He hears her concern, pauses and counters “You can be our designated sailor.”

To satisfy their curiosity, DG, Ron and Susan agree to order different beers and trade sips. “Where do you suppose all this stuff comes from?” DG asks. Ron offers the opinion that the Wharf Rat Ale comes down through a direct pipe from the cadet’s loo. “Stop,” Shirley cautions disapprovingly.

While they wait to order, Ron announces that he and Shirley have just celebrated their 40th anniversary. “Forty years of martial bliss.” Shirley’s pained smile veils a warning glance. “I gave her a dozen roses. One for every good year.” Her elbow finds his ribcage.

Shirley and Pike drink iced tea. She and Susan, seated directly across the table from Pike and DG, remark on family resemblance. “Look! They both have the same beautiful hazel eyes!” Could there be other similarities? Pike wants to catch up.

“Fill in the gaps for me. Just hit the high spots—jobs, places you’ve lived.” Pike wonders about money. He remembers hearing about the deaths of DG’s parents.

DG speaks deliberately, with a halting, amused intensity that draws even these who know his story to rapt attention. He married early. After college he and his wife went on to film school in London, then after several years returned to the US to teach. They lived in Connecticut where they first met Ron and Shirley. Soon after, they divorced amicably. DG got a job in the then incipient video industry, writing marketing copy. “I had my first experience of making good money. This was the late seventies: Talking Heads, the Mud Club and CBGB’s, my Village Period, which I managed to stretch into twelve years of restrained debauchery.” While he talks, his right arm spasms mildly and occasionally jerks noticeably. He sometimes grips the table top to tether it. Like a cat’s tail, it has a will of its own.

Susan describes his apartment. “So beautiful! A loft! Full of art. I remember winter afternoon light streaming in through those big windows, bathing your bookshelves.” Then it was the West Coast, San Francisco, followed by two years in Thailand teaching English, a year in Jamaica and now finally an acting career in LA.

There are so many questions. Pike starts with Jamaica. DG conveys a trace of wistfulness. “It was beautiful at first, but then the politics became impossible to ignore. The minority maintain power by keeping the majority under-educated. It became depressing. On that same subject, I saw a fascinating program on PBS recently,” DG says, “about Affluenza. It’s the international relations equivalent of peer pressure. Attitudes and behaviors are contagious.” Pike is reminded of a quote from recent reading: “The American Dream is the World’s Nightmare.”

“One of the many things that Ron and I have in common is that we’re both Democratic Socialists. I speak for myself, but I imagine not much has changed.” This topic has engaged Ron’s serious attention. He glances at Shirley. “We’ve identified the best way to influence the world now is local involvement. Speaking of local involvement,” he rubs his nose quickly with thumb and first finger, “remember what Henny Youngman used to say? ‘Please, get me a table near a waiter.’” They still haven’t ordered. The deck has gone from sparsely filled to crowded.

Beyond, the harbor is populated with a flotilla of sail and motor yachts. Glancing around the deck, Pike tests the tide of liquidity, the seasonal current of privilege that flows along the coast of Maine during the summer.

And there is where Pike sat with Gwen and her sisters. A pretty young woman sits there now, yet he barely notices her. He can’t help but realize, though, that his table is attracting attention. DG bends forward to confide something. Ron’s impish grin precedes his bray that “DG wants to get the tab— he just asked if I’d keep my order modest!” The dynamic of their relationship materializes, the spectral outline of their Connecticut days. DG savors his humiliation, amused at Ron’s unrestrained glee.

“Have you decided what you’d like?” The harried waitress struggles to take their order. “Our specials are...Oh God. I can’t remember. ” She tries to keep composure. “That’s all right,” reassures DG. “We know just what we want.”

Susan sighs. “I miss my dog.” She is watching a black lab chase a stick thrown into the harbor. Her brand new house and her old puppy are in the care of her daughter. With an ironic smile, she says “I’m hoping all my moving boxes will be unpacked when we get back.” Susan is an organic gardener, an admirer of Scott and Helen Nearing who settled right across the harbor, on Cape Rosier. She owns Eliot Coleman’s books on four season organic gardening. “That’s what brought a lot of young people to this area 20 years ago or so. Hell, I guess it’s closer to thirty now,” Pike notes. “Back to the land, to a simple life.” He has friends among this group. Two years ago one of their most influential exponents, an irrepressible spirit by all accounts, killed himself. A failed relationship. ‘The Good Life’ can still be hard. He keeps these thoughts to himself as Susan points toward the next table. “That’s parsley and thyme over there in that planter, DG. We could use that in our salad, if it ever comes.”

“Those aren’t the kind of herbs that DG and his ex used to grow in Bridgeport,” Shirley cracks. After the several beers, amusement twinkling through his rose-tinted aviator bifocals, DG explains that he uses herb to relax. With his animated, lived-in face, his wild corona of hair, he’s radiating. “It also helps my arm when I act—it’s like constant surges of electricity.”

He used to consider his tremor an obstacle to an acting career. Now at this stage of his life “I’ve come to accept myself on my own terms. Acting is a moderately respectable profession. I’m marketing myself, but after all, that’s what most of us do in one way or another. It’s not like I’m a banker or a lawyer,” he chuckles. “Have I shown you my head shot—my business card?” While he shifts his glass to his right hand and with his other explores his shirt pocket, he is reminded to ask Susan about the photo of himself she used to have. “A little shrine to me,” he teases. “No, I haven’t unpacked that yet.” Then she smiles coyly and, after a pause, “Any chance they’ll be recasting Dr. Strangelove?”

“I never wanted children. This had nothing to do with my relationship with my father,” he assures, warming to his audience, the third beer almost gone. “I may appear to be a bit of a rogue, but I really have a gentility, which I got from him.” He nudges his glasses back into place. “For a job interview recently I had to write about an influential person I admired. I wrote about my father, though we were not close. In relationships I’ve been a serial monogamist, with several notable exceptions.” He reflects. “Women eventually wanted children. I never wanted children, had the vasectomy very early.

“In my last, most recent relationship, I had to break it off myself. I’m not good at this,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’m much better at being left, dealing with the pain.” He takes a long sip from his glass. Ron leans into the table, unable to resist. “What you’re really telling us is that you’re good at getting dumped.” He’s smiling, but his eyes search for signs.

They’ve finished eating. While awaiting the check, some photographs are taken for the relatives out west and arrangements made for Pike to drive around the bay to meet them. The breeze has picked up and now they’ll actually be sailing.

For Pike, traffic is light on the drive south to Belfast. He sees many RVs going the other way, lumbering north with all the comforts of home. He rides over the green steel suspension bridge separating one county from the next, high above the mouth of the river. Whitecaps are just slightly peaking, but there’s not enough gust to make the cables hum. Atop one tower he sees an empty osprey nest.

Pike thinks about what Ron had said, that DG is good at getting dumped. What about his last relationship, the one where DG took responsibility, the one he ended? He said he was much better at being left but Pike wonders about the difference: when you really don’t want a relationship to end. Was DG really talking about losing someone you want to keep in your life?

Pike crosses the spare concrete bridge over the river emptying into the marginal, exposed harbor below. Belfast is a town, not a village. The drive to the waterfront offers little shade, winds past run-down apartments, abandoned warehouses, the canning factory.

There’s plenty of parking along the hard scrabble patchwork of dirt and hot top that passes for waterfront here. Down at the dock Pike asks a cruise boat captain how long the sail should take. They’ll be awhile still.

Discovered a decade ago by expatriates from the city, artists attracted by clearance sale real estate prices, Belfast now shows evidence of the transfusion of capitol provided by new industry, the credit firm MBNA—understood by some to designate “money buys nearly anything.”

He walks to the end of the jetty, picking out approaching boats. There’s a sloop arriving and gradually, as it approaches, he begins to feel a chill of apprehension. One crew member looks like Gwen. He walks over to get a closer look, wild chemistry summoning images.

He retreated during the winter. His refuges sequentially swept away, before a rising tide until he cowered, immobilized, blank. He focused on work and with this anesthesia, endured external life. But inside, the ebb and flow was decompressed and ripped through unpredictably. At times he was totally drained. At other times he was flooded with remorse, with anguish, with grief, with hope, with longing, with regret...If. Do over.

He wrote then: “You’re my best friend. I know I am an asshole. I know how our relationship was ruined by me. So I understand how hard it has been for you to free yourself from me. I am emotionally devastated by the examination of how I acted—defensive, denial, withholding commitment, torturous irresponsibility. It goes on and on. Totally indulgent and insensitive sexually. I missed you. You were with me and I missed you—the most beautiful woman in the world and I slept through and in my illusion, my dream state, I hurt you over and over.”

The sexual images left first. Except when she started going out with someone else. Those images, those sensations go a long, long way. For a few nights, resources utterly depleted, he held to a grateful standstill.

The boat glides in beside the dock. It isn’t her. Same build, same hair.

He turns and looks out toward the bay, wind full in his face. When finally the sailors do arrive he is still staring. The tide is coming in fast—half way toward high.

They tie up and off-load. DG staggers slightly as he jumps to the dock. Getting his land legs will take a minute. Ron returns the boat to the mooring. DG is red, in spite of the sunscreen. Turning to Pike he says, “We need to talk. Let’s go somewhere I can get a cold beer.”

On the short drive from the harbor to the center of town, deft as an illusionist, DG produces a little pipe and lighter, has two quick tokes and, while holding the smoke deep in his lungs, returns the apparatus to his pocket in fluid motion.

Once inside the air conditioned bar they find a table. DG sits side to, back against the wall. Past him, through the dark interior, Pike sees into the bright street. It’s early still—just past five, and the bar is quiet and nearly empty, one couple at a table near the front. The waitress comes and they order ice coffee, beer.

“Some members of the family and I are close,” DG begins. “Oddly, I’m closer to the family out in California than my own sister Kathy.” Pike’s first cautionary lessons in genetics came when he confessed his love for Cousin Kathy.

“Why the emotional distance?” Pike asks.

“Let me explain it this way. They play golf,” DG intones dryly. “Do you?”

“No.”

“They belong to a country club.” Timed like a serve, the question is: “Do you?”

“No.”

Ace. “Then you see what I mean.”

Drinks arrive quickly, the beer a rich, deep amber. DG turns toward the table, leaning in, his resonant voice lowered. “Cousin Frank is divorcing, as you know.” Pike and Frank had shared long, therapeutic phone conversations over the holidays. “What ever happened to fifty-fifty splits?” DG shakes his head with a theatrical smile. “They always go for everything.” Pike can almost feel the THC active in DG’s bloodstream.

“When my ex and I split, she wanted it all,” DG goes on. “There wasn’t much, but from the first I offered half and she agreed. Then she found a lawyer—who gave her bad advice.” His eyes display irony. “Finally they accepted my offer. But what a waste. Of time. Of money. One nice thing about not being married: when it comes to ending.” Then DG says, “Suppose you tell me about your recent breakup.”

Pike stares obliquely at a point on the wall. “It’s been cause for a lot of thinking.” He picks up a cream container and empties it into the deep brown liquid, washing the silver cubes in languid, milky swirls. “I’ve noticed some patterns in my behavior.” He opens another cream. DG pursues the point. “What kinds?”

“I looked for women I could help.”

DG asks “Is this new?”

“No,” Pike reflects. “My marriage fell into that category.”

“When did you first notice?”

“With my ex? The first night I ever saw her. Yeah. A dance party across the street. Commotion. I look out the window to see this woman being forcibly ejected. Screaming. Then she smashes the front door window with a rock. Brenda.”

“Your recent relationship,” DG asks, intent. “What about that?” The air conditioner cycles silently. The couple at the next table gets up to leave. As they open the door, traffic sounds add to the background noise. Then the door closes.

They walk by the window soundlessly. Pike takes a deep breath. “Very similar. In some ways. I remember after our first serious conversation, she confided in me. She’d recently spent a night in jail for OUI. I thought, ‘Oh no, not this again.’ But Gwen stopped right away. She hasn’t had a drink since.”

DG says “This sounds very much like Cindy. For the only time in my life, I consciously wanted to indulge my desire to rescue. I wanted to wear the white hat, you know? Be a hero. And I got to try. But it became too much.” He leans close to Pike, his breath thick with beer. “Right at Christmas she made a suicide attempt.” He stops, eyes closed, pushing his glasses hard, back to the bridge of his nose, keeps pushing. “I found her in the bathtub, wrists slit, covered in blood. I called 911, did mouth to mouth.” With his trembling hand, DG touches Pike’s arm. “The cop that came said, ‘You get out of here.’ Pushed me away.” With a quick gasp, he grabs Pike’s shoulder, then lets go. He looks down at his nearly empty glass. “‘This was a serious attempt,’ the cop says. I always treat cops with respect, and they generally treat me with respect. But this was very tense. The next few weeks were...dark. At a certain point you lose interest in the day-to-day. That’s when it’s bad.” He crushes the moist napkin slowly.

The waitress brings the tab and DG checks his watch. “I have to ask you this. It’s important that we arrive for supper at 6 PM, because Ron and Shirley are very into their schedule. Can we do that? Will we still have time to stop? I’d like to pick up some things for dinner.”

They emerge back out into the thinning sunlight. On the drive to the Co-op, DG settles himself back into the seat and with a hand to his forehead, shades his eyes from the glare. “I own a 1984 Datsun, a cherry California car. It’s the first car I’ve owned in 26 years. In no other city but LA have I needed one.

“Oh God, I have to tell you this. Recently, I was stopped at an intersection? This car runs the red light, sideswipes me, cleans off my driver’s side mirror— and just keeps going.” Listening intently, Pike pulls into a parking space. They get out and cross the lot. DG is loud. The three persons talking at the Co-op entrance stop and watch. Entering the store, DG finds the beer and wine aisle. He’s slightly distracted selecting a good Chardonay. The smell of fresh baked bread begins to awaken Pike’s re-emerging appetite. DG resumes his tale, winding through the boulevards of Los Angeles, the cherry Datsun hurtling after the late model station wagon. Through aisles of organic produce, they verge toward the check out line, DG gesturing with the bottle, beer carefully cradled.

The woman clerk asks for DG’s membership card. “I do have one,” he projects, “but,” with a flourish, he actually produces a card from his wallet, “it’s to the Screen Actor’s Guild.”

“Nice try. You’re very good.” To Pike she says, “He’s very charming.” If we gave discounts for charm...”. She smiles and hands DG his change.

Pike gets the door and DG strides through, bag in hand, animated. “So now the station wagon’s almost out of sight. But, finally...” they walk across the parking lot, “at a grid-locked light, I catch up. It’s an old man with poodle.” DG breaks into a huge, incredulous grin. “Still, I confront him, you know: ‘Jesus Christ look at what you did!’ and the guy,” DG circles his free hand “rolls up his window and,” now he has his hand up in front of his face, making little waving motions, “acts like he doesn’t speak English.” DG’s big shrug turns into an intense smile. “I thought about going to the cops, but, for insurance reasons, I have an address drop up north. I decided against trying to explain all this.” They get into Pike’s car. Neither fastens a seat belt.

Slowly they pass out of town. Heading toward Ron and Shirley’s, they drive through the historic section, sea captain’s homes with gingerbread, fenestrated cupolas and wrought iron fences. DG asks about Gwen. Now Pike feels compelled to plunge ahead, from the beginning, to explain.

“I was already in a relationship, before Gwen and I met. I never fully...” he searches for the word, driving absently. “...disentangled from. It was a wonderful relationship. A woman I worked with. Doreen. I experienced my predictable fear of commitment. I loved her. I probably still do, but I had to break it off. I would be attracted to someone else. I knew I would ruin it. That had been my pattern. I avoided commitment since my divorce. So during this time I first saw Gwen. I knew I had to try the possibility of relationship with her.”

“Were you still seeing Doreen?”

“Yeah. Things were shaky, but we were still very involved.”

“Did you tell her?”

“Yes. From the beginning, everyone knew ”

“So there was no overlap, you know what I mean? No sexual overlap?”

“No. But it was a complex situation. First of all, Doreen was married.”

“Oh boy!”

“Her husband had pushed her into affairs before. But she finally left her marriage and I felt responsible. So from the beginning with Gwen, I had this guilt because of the pain we caused Doreen. When Gwen and I started out, there was lots of difficulty.” He stopped at an intersection, vaguely looking left and right. “She put up with my continuing emotional entanglement for one reason. She replaced her addiction to alcohol with a dependency on me. But I hurt her.” Agitated by confession, he glances at DG. They’re leaving town now, picking up speed. “While I avoided the pain, she gradually developed the resolve to break free.”

As Pike is talking, he’s let the car drift over the center line. DG raises a hand to summon his attention. Pike cuts the wheel. They’re back in the proper lane, slightly distracted. “No, it was not smooth,” he says. “For three and a half years, we rode it out. Even at the point when we broke up, I was still conflicted about my feelings for Doreen, although by then she’d found someone to appreciate her. I didn’t want to hurt Gwen, so I let her end it. I thought I’d be fine. But once she did, something changed.” Pike paused, grimaced.

“Hell. I thought I didn’t care. I had a date in a week. I went out on that first date with Cullen. But when I kissed her that night, movies started swirling in my head. I could feel Gwen deep down inside me. Suddenly I knew I didn’t want anyone else. Finally then, I see how deeply I feel for her. I was in love with her, much more than I knew.

“What was I going to do? I call her. Three times. The phone’s busy. I imagine she’s unplugged it, cause she’s there with someone else, you know? This night of feverish jealousy fucking killed me. I tossed and turned and by five I got up, got dressed and drove to her house. All the while I’m thinking: she’s with someone else. Or, she’s not there at all. She’s spending the night with him. All these fucking thoughts. It’s a long drive and I finally talked myself down. ‘There’s a 99% chance she’s home. She’s not seeing anyone else.’ By the time I get to her house—and she’s there—I knock and I lose it. I just asked her if we could please get together and talk.” They turn off the main road and climb gradually up a hill leading into a green shaded hardwood canopy. There DG motions for Pike to turn onto a dirt road, bordered by maples and a low round stone wall. Pike continues. “From then on we tried to figure things out. But it wasn’t until one night, defensive, I said I’d made a mistake, that I’d left a better relationship with Doreen for the one with her. It was like the moon came out from behind a cloud. I had been afraid to say that for three years. Open up and the light went on. By constantly comparing her to Doreen, I couldn’t see who she really is.”

They arrive at Ron and Shirley’s driveway, curving through tall hay, their home in the midst of a large meadow, brilliant green from the month of rain.

“I knew there was work to do and I knew that I was willing to do that work, finally. We agreed to counseling. I hoped it could possibly bring us back together. And she was willing to work too. More for me to accept that it was over.”

With the engine off, they’ve been talking in the car. DG slowly responds. “This must have been a very hard situation for Gwen.”

Ron has become a used book dealer in his retirement. They go inside. Full bookshelves lining every wall of Ron’s storage area. Pike sees "In Search of the Miraculous," and on another shelf Blake’s "Songs of Experience," Eliot’s "The Waste Land and Other Poems." They enter the kitchen, check the clock and to DG’s relief, it’s ten minutes before six.

Inside, Shirley and Ron’s home is expansive, with light-filled rooms, cathedral ceilings and exposed beams. Large windows look out on the windblown field and, at the farthest hem of forest, an apple orchard. Hardwood floors provide the basis for Danish modern decor—colorful, relaxed—with an open stairway and many more book shelves.

DG puts the beer and wine in the refrigerator. The kitchen counters are crowded with fruit, fresh vegetables—preparations for dinner—a still life with colander. Susan and Shirley are relaxing on the deck, talking. DG helps himself to a stout and joins Ron and Pike in the living room where he sinks luxuriously into a large, soft sofa at the end of the room, spreading one hand gripping the bottle along its back, squeezing a pillow with the other.

Ron asks about DG’s recent trip to Mexico. “You went alone. Couldn’t you find companionship?”

“I went downtown, but,” DG’s eyebrows go up, “was surprised that there were no working girls. Not like Thailand.”

Ron’s frown gives way to a quizzical look. “So what you’re saying is that the only way you’d have found companionship is to have paid for it?”

“It’s funny that you would ask me this. Part of it is that I hate rejection. I can’t stand being told ‘no’.” At DG’s side, the bottle floats in rhythmic pulse. “I very much like to be approached. This has always had a lot to do with my tremor. I think because of my arm, women are reluctant to approach me.”

Ron focuses. “A good Freudian would have a heyday with this.”

“No, it’s really very simple,” DG counters. He smiles disarmingly. “It’s something I’ve discussed with friends. They agree with my rationale. What do you think, Pike, if you were considering opening a conversation with a woman who had a similar condition?”

Pike contemplates a moment, weighing honesty against sensitivity. “It would probably put me off,” he says, watching the bottle dance.

“With possible exceptions of course,” DG adds.

“I’ve never considered the tremor as worthy of remark,” Ron says.

DG sits forward and places his stout on the table. He lowers his voice.

“About our trip here, I should say that Susan and I, for as long as we’ve known each other, have never slept together. We were attracted to one another when we worked together. But she was married and I was married and we didn’t even look at it as a possibility.” He lowers his voice further. “Now when we went to Jamaica together just after Cindy–yes we finally did sleep together there. Then at the airport, on the way back, we went our separate ways and that was that. Coming up here together—it’s been several years—it’s sort of like a recognizance mission for both of us. But I have to say, for me, this just doesn’t seem like the direction I want to go in my life. I’m not sure this feels like the right thing. Do you know what I mean?”

Ron slowly slides back in his chair. “You’re not ready to settle down? This is what you’ve always said.” He grips the chair arm then he pushes forward, straightening up. “Face it DG, you’re still looking. At who or whatever may come along next. You’re a perpetual teenager. Cut the bullshit.”

Breaking into a huge, sheepish grin, DG stands, expansive. “This is why I love this man.” He seems buoyed. “He will always tell me. He will always cut through. I can confide in him.”

The sliding screen door from the porch opens and Shirley and Susan come back in. DG makes a conversational course change into a description of jobs he had after the video era. “An interesting time. But when things were bleak, as they sometimes were, I hit Mom up for money. I considered bar tending, but didn’t do it. For one thing, it just wouldn’t be good to hurl a drink in someone’s face. Ambidexterity is required. My mother was always there to help, but I think it irritated my father a bit. I ended up driving a limo.”

Ron gets up from his chair. He and DG in the center of the room, standing. “You know, this situation with Cindy has also exposed me to Al-anon. I only attended two meetings, but it was very powerful. ‘Hate the problem, love the person.’ I was able to tell Cindy ‘I will always be there for you if you need me to help.’

“The potatoes still need baked some,” Shirley says from the kitchen.

“Give it about ten minutes,” Something in her locution triggers vague recognition in Pike.

“Ron, by contrast, has been married forty years.” DG turns to face him. “Forty years. And you and Shirley have two lovely daughters.”

“My father gave me a lot of motivation, speaking of AA.” Ron's jaw juts. “I vowed early that I would not do what he did. He was a drunk. He was never around. He cheated continually.” He blinks rapidly as he pauses. “So yes, Shirley and I married young and I have been faithful to her,” he says with matter-of-fact conviction. “We have two beautiful, normal girls.”

DG asks “Have you ever been in love with another woman?”

Ron sways from one foot to the other, his stance balanced. “Yeah, I’ve been in love with other women. But it’s like what you said to Cindy. ‘I will always be there for you if you need me.’ I’ve confided in them. At times I held them. I’ve even given them money, helped, comforted them.” He’s breathing quickly, looking attentive, almost defiant.

“Let me ask you, did you and Shirley talk about this?”

“What do you mean?” Ron pulls quickly at his nose.

Gently, DG pursues the question “Did you tell her?”

For a second there’s silence. Ron is stoic. “No,” he murmurs.

With the clatter of utensils and dish-ware, a wave of aromas radiates from the kitchen. Their size difference is apparent to Pike, DG a head taller than Ron as they stand together in the center of the room. Gradually releasing some of his tension, Ron turns away, starting toward the kitchen.

“I’m curious,” DG says, still standing, swaying slightly, looking at Pike. “What about Gwen? How do you feel about her now?” Ron pauses, drawn into the liquid, vibrant room.

Pike takes a slow, deep breath, lips pursed, as his eyes search the ceiling, enveloped in the soft chair, thinking. The room feels like a rocky granite shore as he pushes off. “Back around Thanksgiving I wrote a song. I went to her house and played it for her. At the time we’d been split up for two months, but we’d been in counseling together.” Closing his eyes, he sees a dark vibrant room. He hears an acoustic guitar on a late fall night. “The chorus is, ‘Can the light of Truth resurrect a love, open our hearts, our eyes? I believe in miracles, when it comes to love, when it comes to your love.’” His eyes open again. DG and Ron are still. “We actually spoke of marriage that night. But,” he takes another deep breath and looks down, “by the next counseling session—December 4th—by then things were cold again. So the therapist suggested a complete break. No communication for five weeks—over Christmas and New Year’s.” Pike smolders. “That was tough. The night we were supposed to meet again at his office to talk about this experience,” his voice is slow and measured, “there was a bad ice storm—January 7th. We had to cancel the session. But I couldn’t wait any more. I’d been counting the minutes. I called her and asked if I could come see her and she said yes.

“I crept along the roads to her house. I knocked and when she came to the door, some part of me thought I’d never see her again. I burst into tears.” He sees her stop in front of the warming stove, look at him, smiling. “We talked. I told her about my insights, my dreams, she told me about hers. We cried together. It was powerfully beautiful, we connected so intensely.” He looks out the window now. A breeze ripples through the hayfield. “A week later, January 16th, she invited me to her house for dinner.” He sees the dark night, the light kitchen table, the hanging spider plant, her little boxes, shelves filled with cookbooks, the folder of his letters. “I was prepared for the worst. She explains to me she’s thinking of our relationship in two ways: About being good friends, or,” he pauses, “wanting to consider marriage.”

Ron’s been listening intently and he steps back toward Pike’s chair. “I don't see the dichotomy. If you’re going to have a good marriage, you have to be good friends.”

“Yes,” said Pike, slowly continuing. “Well, to hear her mention marriage, I felt as though my prayers had been answered. That night was beautiful. Feeling the sense of blessing, of promise and potential. Against all the odds.”

The story moves through him like a river. “Then the evening of January 19th, she called. She didn’t sound well. I drove over there and found her curled up on her sofa, holding her cat, a quilt pulled tight around her, shivering. What could I say? ‘You don’t have to do this.’ That’s all. That was the end.”

DG is standing, silent. “What’s happening now? Is she seeing anyone else?”

“I don’t know. She was. I haven’t seen her in months.”

DG asks, “How do you feel about her now?”

“I love her.” Pike continues without hesitation. “Unconditionally. Sure, there are things that bug me. But I accept her completely.”

“Children?” DG asks.

“I would love to have children with her. I would marry her in a heartbeat. I’m totally willing to commit.” Without warning, the pressure builds in Pike’s chest, in his throat, filling his eyes. He’s quiet for too long, but needs a little longer. He breathes slowly, focusing on the floor, the grain of the maple. “She’s not there. I’m accepting that gradually. And I’m trying to move on.”

His story. Telling is compulsion, every time, hoping someone can make it change, hoping someone can bring her back into his life. “I’ve looked at myself, learned about myself.” This mantra of resignation enables him to go on. “These things have made it worthwhile.”

The evening air is now still. In a few more moments, the stillness has compounded. The room has a soothing sound, like soft waves, broken by the sliding screen door clattering as the women come back in from the porch. Except for Pike, everyone moves on into the kitchen, but he sits for a few moments, listening to distant surf. Then he pushes up out of the chair.

It’s time for the Ritual Feast. Dinner is ready now and the buffet procession begins, past the steaming salmon, peas and mushrooms, the salad and fragrant peasant loaves. Arrayed around the lighted candles, spiraling outward, are elegant place settings. The same seating pattern from lunch is repeated, Shirley next to Ron, then DG, with Pike between DG and Susan. The wine is tasted and found acceptable. Pike toasts, with pure, clear water, to renewal of old friendship.

“We do have some weird friends,” Ron jokes, looking at DG. Susan asks if DG is the weirdest of all. “Well, there’s Kurt, our sculptor friend with his art commune. He’s pretty strange.”

“Oh, they were something else.” Shirley rolls her eyes. “That was sort of a free love situation. Then his wife left him for his best friend. He insisted on giving her away at the wedding.”

Ron looks at Shirley, “Haven’t seen him in awhile, but he’s still in Woodstock.”

Compliments flow abundantly. The food is magnificent—perfectly prepared, fresh. DG finishes his second glass of wine. “Woodstock reminds me of music,” he says. “I came of age in the sixties. I was around for Elvis, the beginning of Rock. I’d like to share a little theory I have, if no one minds.”

“God, I hated Elvis,” Ron says, tearing a piece of bread.

“Our musical tastes tend more toward the old and mellow,” Shirley adds. “Like Fats Domino, Doris Day.”

“You knew that Bing Crosby got Louis Armstrong his first job in film?” Ron picks up.

“Well OK,” DG continues undeterred. “You’re helping me make my point—”

“Which is...?” Ron baits.

“Cultural influences merging. The impact of black music on Elvis. It’s these two streams flowing together—black cultural experience introduced into mainstream America, that produced the Rock and Roll gumbo.” He takes time to savor the salmon and the turn of phrase. “Now, since Hendrix—Jimi Hendrix was really the last Black musician in rock...”

“It seem like Hendrix was saying something bigger than rock and roll, bigger than a color of music,” Pike says.

“Well, yes. And this brings me to the story a piano player friend of ours in New Haven used to tell ,” DG continues. “Sullivan was the only white player in the house band at an all-black jazz club in an all-black neighborhood. It was small, intimate, and the patrons took listening very seriously. So one night, after his initiation, after he’d been accepted and was even a mascot of sorts, there was a fatherly old bass player who took him aside during a break. He had something he wanted to share. There at the bar together, Mr. Baggs was his name, he said, ‘Every time every serious player sits at the piano, picks up the guitar, puts the trumpet to his lips, he’s trying to say something. Do you know what it is?’ And Sullivan, slightly defensive and a bit impatient says, ‘No Mr. Baggs. What are serious musicians trying to say?’ Mr. Baggs replies, ‘Lord, why can’t I surrender?’”

“Ummm. Yeah,” Pike says. “Yeah.”

As she gets up, Susan says, “I saw an interview with Jimi Hendrix once. He describes this image he had of himself while he’s playing, of coming down from the sky, into a foxhole and rescuing a wounded.” She picks up the empty salmon platter.

“The first time I saw Hendrix, he was backing John Hammond. I was living in London. It was very unusual,” DG says. “More strange was seeing Bob Marley open for The Commodores, trying to reach the black US audience with reggae. Which never worked.”

Ron finishes a deep swallow from his wine glass. “I find Reggae totally repetitive and boring.”

A second bottle of wine is opened and freely shared as Shirley and Susan continue clearing the table.

Pike tries adding some background. “If you trace reggae to its African roots, the Nyubingi influence, there’s an ancient ritual tradition.” Pike’s testing the waters. “The purpose—it’s supposed to induce a trance state, a meditative state. It is repetitive, for sure. But the rhythms are close to the human pulse.” He turns to DG. “Then there’s the ritual use of ganja. By the way, how was the herb in Jamaica?”

“Californian is better,” DG says and then his face expands into a huge grin. “Ron, you know, I’ve always thought you should try pot.”

“Well,” Ron snorts, sitting up straight. “I can say that I have absolutely no interest in ever trying pot.” He rubs his mouth. “In fact I’m happy to tell you that I get everything I want from Beethoven, and from reading poetry.” He looks around, quickly grasping his nose between his thumb and first finger, shifts in his chair again. More softly, he goes on. “Besides, I’ve never smoked. I hate smoke.”

Susan nods in agreement. “But you can eat it. We eat pot brownies. They’re great.” She frowns humorously. “Smoke makes me sick, too.”

DG gestures out the patio door, through the screen where the late afternoon sun has bathed the tree tops in a luminous suite of color. “You know the qualities that made Renaissance painting so unique? A different way of seeing the world—perspective, a new sensitivity to light?” Ron raises his eyebrows, repositioning himself with a quick smile.

The trees draw Susan’s attention. She nods emphatically. “What is that song, DG? You know the lyric.” She closes her eyes, then: “‘Beauty I’ve always missed, With these eyes before.’” She opens her eyes and looks up, smiling. “Seeing the same thing in a new light.”

Ron speaks quickly, with the slightest lisp. “Let me see if I’m following this.” He raises his eyebrows, his voice coming from his forehead. “The cultural changes of the Renaissance were due to drugs? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

DG smiles. “No. What I’m saying is that there are powerful positive insights that accompany the use of marijuana.”

“Well,” Ron says, “In my years in the school system, let’s just say that I’ve seen a lot of powerful negative results.”

Susan is almost entreating. “It’s an experience of consciousness. It’s available to us. Why wouldn’t we want to explore the entire range?”

Shirley comes in from the kitchen looking like a fertility goddess, carrying a ample bowl of fruit sliced into crescents. “You know, this needs said.” It dawns on Pike like sunrise over farmland. Rich Mid-Western soil. Warm vowels, guttural Germanic stock. The flow of her locution echoes Eastern Pennsylvania, Amish country. “You guys sound like missionaries, like Jehovah’s Witnesses. He’ll invite them in every time and talk them blue.”

From the bowl, Ron picks out a smile-shaped slice of cantaloupe. “Catholics are the easiest. They’re definitely the most fun—to debate with them, bring up the pagan connection—” He bites into the juicy melon. “So much of that tradition is derived from the Mithraic Nature Cults.” He wipes his chin with his napkin. “Back in college studying psychology, I finally got a priest I knew to admit it. But only after a few drinks. They’re not allowed to question. They have to accept it all on faith.”

“I never knew you had background in psychology,” Susan says.

“Taught it,” DG nods.

Susan says, “Some well known psychologists have used drugs.”

“What? Cocaine?” Ron says, and looks quickly at the ceiling. “You mean Freud—?”

DG says, “There are no shortage of writers either. From Blake and Coleridge, right up to the present day.”

“I’ve seen too many kids fuck up their lives,” Ron continues.

Quickly DG, adds, “Well, while cigarettes and alcohol are legal, it seems to me that they’re more harmful than pot.”

“So you’re saying pot should be legal?” Ron counters.

DG slides his chair back away from the table. “I’ll defend marijuana, because it’s a naturally occurring substance.”

“Wait a minute.” Ron squints. “You’re pro or con here based on whether substances are organic, versus processed?”

Finally Pike interrupts. “It feels to me like we’re doing intellectual aerobics here. Everyone’s working up a sweat staying in the same place.” A little hush diffuses through the room. Taking a moment to attend to the quality of his focus, Pike looks at Susan, at Shirley, at Ron and DG. “I feel qualified to express my opinion about drugs. I’ve had the experience of using cigarettes and alcohol and pot and LSD and I’ve had the experience of getting into trouble. And having to quit. We can sure use them dangerously. I did. With the hallucinogens, I experienced insights, incredible insights. But I felt like I was getting ahead of myself. Because when I came down, it was like going into consciousness deficit. I ended up below where I had started from. Getting back...took a long time.”

Pike thinks of her, sitting at her kitchen table, crying. He sees his folder of letters, still unread. He sees her trembling, huddled on the sofa. He wonders. Will she ever ask the question?

Ron finally says, “The truth is that I’d never try pot because I’m deathly afraid of what I might see and experience.”

“You don’t have to try herb,” DG says. “If your music and poetry work for you, that’s fine.”

The table is clear, one candle flame remaining. Shirley softly strokes the placemat. “The rituals can be a really valuable thing.” There’s warmth present in her consonants, vowels round and full. “Like when it comes to dealing with death, you know? Remember when Jeanie died?” She looks over at Ron, who is very still. “Our youngest daughter’s best friend. She was killed in a car accident, ten years ago. She was only fourteen.” She turns her wedding ring just slightly with her thumb. “They’re Catholic. They had a formula, activities, you know? Rituals, a ceremonial structure they could put themselves inside. It really helped them. It really helped them handle their...loss...their grief. They seem to do better with it than we did.” She extends her hand so slightly to Ron. “All we had was each other....” Ron takes her hand then.

“But we made it through,” he says. “Alone together.”

Pike thinks silently of swimming with her, holding her up in the water. “We’re each here in this moment,” he thinks to himself. “We are all here alone. Back, behind the eyes, looking out, watching life, watching ourselves live. Hearing ourselves talk, watching ourselves react. Watching ourselves get hurt.”

Pike wonders what she’s doing now, this moment, if she’s alone.

“We know we’re going to die. We came here from somewhere, back before. Who we are—this self, this point of view, this is who goes on toward purest love. Maybe we can share this, somehow. This vast universe, where we are all alone, is itself a presence.”

Tender darkness envelops the field, flows slowly over the steps and up the deck, stops briefly at the screen door and then pours into the room, eddying sweetly around the single flame.

She left him, finally. She broke free. A bee’s wing suspended on shimmering water. The price of chains refused, lose what they could have had. But he wouldn’t want her any other way.