Backroads Ch. 02

"You're welcome."

"Do you suppose I could talk you into taking me across tomorrow?"

"Across?"

"To the lake." I held out my arm and she looked at me, puzzled. "What?"

"Go ahead, twist my arm." She got it then, laughed a little.

"I think I've laughed more today than I have in the past twelve years."

"You wear it well, Jennie."

"Hm-m, what?"

"Your face lights up when you laugh; the cares of your life fall away and you come alive." I looked at her; something told me she wanted to look away but no longer could. Or no longer wanted to.

"You're not a psychiatrist, are you?"

"Me? Lord no."

"What do you do?"

"Nothing so glamorous, really." I looked away, tired of my life, tired of the futility of this calling.

"Is it so bad for you as well?"

"You've no idea. I teach infectious diseases, work at a large teaching hospital in Portland."

"Ah. HIV, Aids, that lot?" She looked at me intently now, interested, politically engaged.

"Yes."

"So, the motorcycle. Tell me about it."

"I get a couple weeks off in the summer, and again at Christmas, but a lot depends on what we have in the wards. I haven't had time off in about three years. And I'm tired, Jennie. Tired of it all."

"Me too."

"Why?"

"We just went through a brutal election; lot of voter dissatisfaction. The Celtic Tiger, the so-called economic miracle of the 90s; well, it's all falling apart now. I was persuaded to run again, but my heart wasn't really in it. Now I know I did the wrong thing. Our generation has made too many mistakes. It's time to let fresh blood in, fresh ideas into the arena."

"Are you going to resign?"

"Are you going to quit medicine?"

"I've thought about it."

"And do what?"

"Go to Africa, maybe."

"Noble sentiment. Why?"

"I guess if anything I'd like to feel needed again. I don't anymore. Not here, anyway."

"Did you ever get married?"

"No. There was never time."

"Really?"

"Between med school and all the training, well, no. It never happened."

"Not even close?"

"Once. Yeah, once it did."

"What happened?"

"A drunk ran a red light."

"Oh, Jim. I'm so sorry."

"It was a long time ago. I think I fell into work then; fell there instead of the black hole that lined the world for a while. Guess it was the safe thing to do."

"I'm not sure why you say 'safe'. Is riding a motorcycle 'safe'?"

"Probably not, but it's safer than eating chicken fried steak?"

"I'll not argue the point. What a vile thing that was. Good, mind you, but at the same time -- ridiculously vile."

"It's nice out here. The light. Look at the lodge, would you? The reflections, the lights on the water. Thanks for asking me out here, by the way."

I felt her next to me then; she edged in a little closer, turned to face me. I turned to meet her, looked at her, but she was on her toes now, pulling my face toward hers. Ours was a gentle kiss, a kiss on the lips, but there was immense feeling pent up inside both of us now and all those feelings came together in that moment. She held me close after our mouths broke apart, I felt her hot breath on neck, her fingers massaging the back of my neck.

"Thank you, Jim," she whispered, and I felt a tremor pass though her.

"Are you getting cold?"

"Maybe a little." I could hear a soft cry, a cough, the gentle restraint of holding deep feelings in check; I took off my windbreaker and wrapped it over her shoulders, held her to my body. She pulled back a moment later, looked back toward the lodge and gasped.

I turned, saw a full moon rising through pine-crested hills. We were held by the light, watched the moon rise, stood in silent awe of the beauty that was unfolding all around us. The mountaintops that rimmed the lake glowed silver now; the trees below a darker gray that shimmered in moonshadow. The moon's cold light rippled across the landscape. I found it hard to imagine a more perfect beauty. The lake remained perfectly still, lost in perfect calm, and two moons hovered between vague, shifting horizons.

___________________________________

Our table was lost in the glow of amber candles, windows beside us held reflections of quiet talk; Jennie sat across from me in the glass, and I could see her eyes dancing even there. Shadows shifted as if caught between wayward currents of light; now in their indecision they waved to no avail against contradictory impulses. We picked at our food; thoughts ordained in random chance floated between us unsaid, unsay-able. We seemed to have gathered on the edge of a great resolve, and there we waited, waiting.

I find it hard to think about that night now, about all the things we might have said to one another, and the things we said just inside soft edges of darkness.

She wanted too talk about choices she had made, choices that had come for her in the dead of night and laid claim to her soul. About a man, a brutal man who had seduced her years ago, given her great joy for a time, then an undiminished sadness. She had been running ever since, she said, and she said she understood now there were no coincidences in life.

I think I knew even then what she meant to say, but could not quite yet. Our meeting, she implied, had not been a chance encounter; we had, she thought, been drawn to that time, to that place, for a purpose.

"Are you sure it's alright if I ride with you tomorrow?" she asked while we sat next to a fireplace in the lobby after dinner.

"Sure. That would be nice. It's late though, and I need to head back to town, find someplace to bunk down for the night."

"Why don't you come upstairs with me?"

There it was. So simple, so straightforward. I looked at her, and she did not look away; rather, she stood, held out her hand.

"Come," she said.

And I did. Several times, as a matter of fact.