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Stonewalled

A Test of Friendship and Faith

By L J PurvesPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 10 min read
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“… but here’s me doing all the talking.” Her quick, light pat on my forearm is as irritating as her knee bouncing beneath the table; habitual, self-absorbed anxiety. “What’s on your mind, Lorna?”

She’d be surprised to know what’s on my mind. The only reason I’m sitting at her dining room table is because I hope to gain some clarity on what I thought I saw her up to four nights ago. I broach my curiosity with deliberate ambiguity. “The other night I dreamt I was an anchoress.”

“I believe the term is anchor, dear. Broadcasters don’t distinguish gender anymore.”

Patrice’s need to assert intellectual superiority over me is automatic. We don’t like each other much. Her impromptu call this afternoon inviting me to join her for dinner was surprising, but I’ve been fixated on what I saw the other night so accepted her invitation, albeit a little too eagerly. Now I’m wondering if she has an agenda for this tense encounter as well.

I don’t bother to explain that in the fourteenth century anchoresses were distinguished from anchorites and neither had anything to do with broadcasting. I give her my best, of-course-you’re-right smile and am mercifully prevented from saying anything by a sudden summons from her phone.

“Ooh!” She squeals like an excited teen, lurching from her chair and slapping the black rectangle to the side of her face with an overzealous smack; aura of authority instantaneously dissolved. “I must take this call.” Her eyes dare me to rebuke her before she darts around the corner and into the kitchen.

Adolescent cooing and hushed giggles with just a hint of her husky, mock derision set my nerves to ultimate cringe. The mustard yellow walls of the dining room close around me just as the afternoon sun did from the west window of my stone cell. Blessed isolation. I could hear the muffled words of clergymen in my dream, but these words weren’t salacious, and I was content, nothing like what I’m feeling now. The incessant murmur coming from my hostess’s kitchen stabs at my breastbone, urging my conscience to react. I dreamt I was an anchoress the night I saw her. I wish I was one now.

I’ve known Ted, her husband, longer than she has. We were in college together and have maintained a congenial professional relationship over the years, often referring clients to each other and frequently attending the same industry functions. Apparently Ted was called away suddenly this morning to help his sister with an urgent family matter and Patrice, claiming to not like eating alone, called me, desperate for a diner companion. She snapped photos of us enjoying her vegan casserole – I concede, Patrice is a great cook – and immediately sent them to Ted. “Teddy will be pleased I’m not eating alone tonight,” she assured me. I’m beginning to suspect that the candid snaps are part of an elaborate alibi that I don’t want to be a part of.

“I do apologize, Lorna.” She interrupts my mounting misery, clearing dishes from the table with slightly trembling hands. “This is the only chance I’ve had to discuss an important board matter with the treasurer. I haven’t been able to reach him all week.”

I can’t stop my eyebrows from pulling up with my rolling eyes. What, no email? Her back is already turned to me as she scoots back to the security of her kitchen. I follow closely behind, cutlery in hand, wanting her to feel a little uncomfortable with my proximity.

“He’s going to stop by with some checks for me to sign in about an hour. I hope you don’t mind.” Her averted gaze says more than her words do.

I’m sure he does treasure you, I silently sneer to myself, growing edgier by the minute. “Not at all.” I assure her aloud, grateful for an opportunity to leave soon. I don’t like this coy game, especially now that my suspicions are being affirmed. It’s curious she hasn’t said his name. Always the role player our Patrice; treasurer to her chair. Is he submissive to her throne, I wonder? I can’t help myself.

“Let me fill the dishwasher for you,” I smile unassumingly. “Does, ah, your treasurer live far from here?” I’m fishing for a name.

“Actually, he lives near you, Lorna,” she replies, not giving it much thought as she closes the washroom door and leaves me to tidy.

It must have been “the treasurer” I saw her with at the patisserie near my gym Monday night. I like to feel a little superior myself after a workout and strut past its front window with a sidelong glance at patrons indulging in French baked goodness, knowing that I have just successfully fortified my resist temptation muscle. Thankfully, Patrice only had eyes for the man sitting across from her, and was not looking toward the window so there was no awkward moment of recognition, not for her at least. I wouldn’t have given this much thought if she hadn’t been holding his hand and if he, whose back was to me, definitely not Ted’s back, was wiping whipped cream from the corner of her mouth with his fingertip.

Safely out of sight in my car, heart racing, I scrolled for Ted’s landline number without thinking about what I was about to do. My protective instinct was in high gear. Ted sounded annoyed when he picked up. “She’s out running a few errands,” he grumbled. I don’t remember asking to speak with Patrice, just mumbling something lame about a recipe in my attempt to console a friend without explaining why.

I tried not to let my imagination go wild on the short drive home. I did not want to get involved but at the same time was concerned that a sweet man was being betrayed. I suppose that’s why I had the dream. Achoresses withdrew from society to devote their life to prayer. If I were an anchoress, it would be easy for me to ignore this entire situation and I would purposefully not be digging for information in an attempt to protect Ted now.

At one point in my dream, I was laying on an uncomfortable straw mattress, tucking a wool blanket tightly around my shivering body, and listening to eerie, unanswered owl hoots hang in the night sky like my unsettled curiosity; hoo, hoooo, hoo, hoooo.

Patrice returns to the kitchen, hair and make-up refreshed, and asks if I’d like some wine.

She knows I don’t drink. I brush past her a little too abruptly on my way to the vestibule, dishwasher loaded, countertops wiped, anxious to leave. “I don’t want to get caught up in board discussion so shall bid you goodnight,” I laugh awkwardly, trying my best to sound lighthearted.

She smiles without a word and gratefully hands me my jacket. “I understand. We on the board are a dedicated lot. Why else would we be reviewing meeting minutes on a Friday night?”

Minutes? I thought he was bringing over checks. She’s as good at deception as I am at masking my mounting irritation.

The brisk, night wind cools an ache at my temples and my hair is flailing with the same intensity as my racing thoughts. She didn’t even say good night, just closed the door with a distracted smile. Curiosity got me exactly what I deserved tonight, a flambé serving of pseudo friendship sprinkled with nuts. I blow past my car, hands jammed deep in my pockets, needing to walk around the block to settle myself before getting behind the wheel.

Desperate for distraction, I imagine myself kneeling beside the bed in the anchorhold and begin mouthing the Serenity Prayer. It’s the only prayer I know after reciting it from memory in High School. I’ve only ever been in churches for funerals and one wedding so why the prayer has stuck with me, I’ll never know.

“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”

Should I call Ted or mind my own business?

“… the wisdom to know the difference...”

I’m sliding between two chilly worlds, the stone enclosure where I fervently pray and my friend’s betrayal. It barely registers that I’m back at my Mazda, not much calmer, but cooler. As I stab in the dark at the car door with the key, it feels as though I’m being watched, as though someone’s eyes are boring into the base of my neck. Turning slowly, guarded, my searching eyes see a man standing in the front window of the home directly across from me. It’s Ted.

Ted is very tall and, in this moment, intimidating. His muscular arms are folded across his broad chest and his hand flicks dismissively toward me with the same abruptness that my jaw drops toward my chest, realizing it’s him and what this means.

Door unlocked, I sit tensely behind the wheel, taking slow, deep breaths through pursed lips. A black Range Rover slides in front of my idling car and silently eases against the curb. A man, smooth as the SUV, eases out and slithers up the walk toward Patrice’s front door. He’s not carrying any papers and yes, it’s Mr. Monday’s much slimmer back and light brown hair. I have my answer.

My head automatically swivels toward Ted, afraid to look but unable to help myself. I don’t see him.

I abruptly pull around the black monster in front of me, not wanting any further part in this potentially intense drama and drive too fast on the freeway home. I belt nonsense words along with classic rock songs blasting from my speakers, brain sufficiently numbed when I pull in front of my own home fourty minutes later.

After a long, hot shower, curled in my bedroom armchair with the cat purring contently on my lap, all that matters is how the heroine in my historical novel is going to tell her dear sister that she’s decided to move to Paris.

The owl’s persistent call draws my attention away from the reverie of silent prayer, back to the calmness of my dream’s stone-encased surroundings. Its hoot is endearing tonight, as though calling to a friend and expecting a response from the candlelit glow of my chamber. My knees ache from kneeling on the cold, hard floor but I’m at peace and accept this discomfort as part of my commitment to having withdrawn from unholy temptations and the discontent of fourteenth century life.

This time when I pull the wool blanket around me, I’m wakened by a disgruntled cat patting at my face, his mild complaint over being jostled by the parallel blanket tug on our warm and cozy bed.

The holier than thou metaphor in my anchoress dreams is unsettling. I lay still, in deep contemplation, absentmindedly caressing the cat until I make sense of the dream’s subconscious messages and decide how to move forward. When I finally drag myself from the luxury of my bed on this chilly morning, I’m delighted to see a light dusting of autumn’s first snow blanketing the neighborhood in quiet tranquility. It affirms my desire for a fresh start, a redo of the past week’s internal upheaval. “Not my business, Smokey,” I affirm with the cat. “It never was."

___

Glorious sunlight! Outdoor freedom after months of self-induced hibernation! My skin pulsates with gratitude as luxurious sunrays, not itchy wool, warm and caress it’s flaky pallor back to life. The outdoor market hums with the delight of pale, squinting humans, anxious to gather fresh produce after enduring fluorescent enhanced, I-think-it’s-edible fruits and vegetables for winter’s eternity.

I love browsing at the artisan stalls before bagging my produce supply for the week. It’s inspiring to see pieces created during the dark months sparkle and shine in spring’s rejuvenating sunlight. I’m holding a stunning tanzanite pendant up to the sky, mesmerized by the play of light on its iridescent blue surface when I hear Ted’s unmistakable laugh. I haven’t seen or heard from Ted, or Patrice for that matter, since what I now remember as the night of autumn’s first snow. Our eyes lock momentarily before he bends down and says something to a woman he pulls closer to him and directs away from the stall where I'm standing. As they retreat, I realize the woman is Patrice with a new, shorter, blonder bob.

Irresistible blue pendant dripping from my neck, I slip over to the used bookstore I always visit when I’m at the market. I’m feeling a little hurt about being snubbed when I enter this familiar sanctuary but my unease immediately dissolves when I see the featured book display, “Europe in the Middle Ages”.

Staring back at me, into my soul it seems, is the sublime face of Julian of Norwich, England’s most renowned anchoress. I’m transfixed by the mystic parallel between seeing her and what has just transpired with Ted and Patrice.

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well,” quotes the shop owner. “Wasn’t she beautiful?”

Short Story
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About the Creator

L J Purves

Artistic spirit who teaches piano, composes, and enjoys writing.

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