Chapter Six
For Hank’s family the saying of good-byes is its own unique time-consuming ritual. Each family member needs to hug and kiss each other family member. It is a mélange of motion with an underlying order. There is a lot of circling around and gushing; when it’s done, everyone has been touched by everyone else. It is late before the last lingering family member, overloaded with leftovers, pulls out of the driveway. Alison closes the front door and leans up against it, tired. Hank’s family is exhausting.
Polly is coming in the morning to finish the clean-up, so Alison takes the stairs two-at-a-time, and crosses the hall, into her bedroom. She tugs a suitcase out onto the bedroom floor. She stops in the doorway of her closet and scans the hangers: skirts, nope, dresses, nope, nice pants, all unlikely to be useful - she has a closet full of inappropriate clothing. She shrugs. Think. Cold dense rainy woods. Well, I don’t know why I don’t own the long wool underwear and neoprene yellow poncho that I evidently need. Really, what was I thinking last Christmas when I asked for a Kindle? Oh, I know, I couldn’t imagine actually being somewhere without Internet. I wonder if I lay my cutest bikini on the bed if Hank and Jimmy would consider cutting this fishing thing short out of kindness, or even pity. She crosses to the bureau and pulls out a pair of sweat pants, two pairs of old jeans, and a sweatshirt; how attractive, I’m bringing my best in-case-of-freezing-flood-and-mud resort wear. She arranges the bulky items inside the suitcase, and adds a grungy shredded pair of sneakers she has kept, in case she ever had the desire to paint or work in a garden, which she hasn’t, because both involve the potential for dirt under her fingernails, which she can’t stand. What else? She looks in the closet. I need some arctic-level pajamas. She sees Hank. He is standing in the doorway. The grin on his face makes his eyes bright. His thick eyebrows are raised in a humorous question. A relaxed comfort exists in the space between them now, as it has for years, the way it does when the struggle is over and the coupling is complete; whatever, they’re in for the long haul. They will grow old together, sit side-by-side between the arms of an ample loveseat, leaning on each other, and looking out at the world, reliving their shared life. They will be aware of each other’s thoughts in the most intimate way, and they will enjoy the sustained blissful contentment of knowing another person thoroughly.
“What?” she asks. “What are you grinning at?”
“The vision of you in nothing but fishing waders.”
She cocks her head, “It’s a little sick the way you’re enjoying this.”
“You underestimate yourself. You always have. You might love it.”
“That’s true. Perhaps I’ve been hiding all my outdoor skills from you all these years.”
“If they’re anywhere near as good as your indoor skills I’m excited.” They share a knowing smile. Hank walks over and takes Alison in his arms. “Seriously, honey, I can take Jimmy alone and you can go to the day spa and get peeled or hot stoned or kneaded like dough, if you like.”
“And let you get all the glory? No way. I’m not backing out. It is exactly what everyone expects me to do and I’m a little tired of being predictable.”
“In that case, I’m going to knead you like dough myself right now.”
“Please tell me there aren’t a lot of bad baking metaphors on their way.”
“I’m going to grease the pan.”
“Stop.”
“Play with it until it rises.”
“Really.” She tries hard not to grin. “Stop.”
Hank didn’t always love Alison. They had been dating for such a long time that he got married because it felt like the next thing to do. He fell in love with her slowly over the course of the next ten years. It is the greatest secret of his life that when he said “I do” he meant “Why not?” He became aware of his love when it surprised him. He listens to his friends complain about their relationships, and he feels embarrassed by the extent of his luck. He marvels at how close he came to disaster by not realizing how important it was for him to have her. Perhaps there was some invisible inner compass guiding him into these arms, this life. And when he began to love her, it awakened a set of instincts he didn’t know he had. He wanted to take care of her. Watch over her. Protect her. It made him experience being a man in a completely different way. He had never struggled to get a date: his tall frame and uncommonly soft eyes served him well. He had been a college athlete and women seemed to be plentiful. He felt manly running around scoring at will. He had been an active participant in the he-man bluster and locker room bragging, ten chicks, twenty babes, the quantity syndrome - and then, one day, he saw it for what it was: it was backwards. Any man can satisfy one woman for one night; it takes real skill to keep the same woman satisfied year after year, especially after the heightened sensitivity from newness wears off. A guy has to have game: new moves. His buddies needed new women all the time because they were throwing the same old passes and the receiver was bored. Last week, as Alison was slipping her sweater off over her head he grabbed her arms trapping her inside and laid her onto the bed where he then took his time. He had lit a candle and he began by dribbling a few drops of wax onto her bare belly. They made love like teenagers, like they were hungry. He was thinking now that this dough concept might have something going for it. Baking. Dough. Frosting maybe? Yeah. There’s something there.
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