Backcast (14 page)

“Gwen's a good woman,” Phoebe explained. “But she drinks too much, and that clouds her judgment.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Nothing. That's the point.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know you don't. And you never will until you figure out that you can't control everything.”

“I don't try to control everything.”

Phoebe sighed. “Let's try another approach. When was the last time you had sex without tying somebody up?”

“Um.”

“Or simulating some other kind of violence or force?”

Quinn didn't reply.

“Or making yourself vulnerable?”

“I don't see what this has to do with fishing.”

“It has everything to do with fishing because it has everything to do with why you want to catch me.”

“I don't get it.”

“That's because ‘catch' and ‘release' are concepts that elude you—in every part of your life.”

Quinn didn't say anything. She honestly had no idea where Phoebe was going with all of this.

“You never let go of anything, Quinn. And you don't understand that things don't happen
to
you—they just happen. There is no grand design or plan that dictates the way your life evolves. There's no big reveal waiting for you around the next corner, no matter how fast or far you go on that hopped-up Harley of yours. Life is just what it is. Right now. In this moment. And if you're lucky, you get the next moment after this one. That's it. That's all there is. Things don't have meaning. Things are just things. Shit happens. We get over it and we move on. We don't keep making more of it and smearing it all over everything in our paths because it's the only thing we know. Once you understand that, you can relax and stop equating feeling with pain. And then you can learn how to let go.”

Quinn put down her sandwich. She didn't feel hungry anymore.

“So that's it?” she asked Phoebe. “I want to catch you so I can let you go?”

“Pretty much.”

“Am I supposed to know what the hell you're talking about?”

“You tell me.”

Quinn shook her head.

It was Phoebe's turn to sigh. “Okay. That's all I got. Nobody can say I didn't try.” She flipped her tail. “Toss me back in. I've been up here too long and I've got to be in St. Albans by twelve-thirty.”

“You're leaving?”

“And they said you weren't trainable.”

Quinn got to her knees. “Do I pick you up or use the net?”

“Just pick me up—but don't get any ideas and try to cop a feel.”

Quinn thought about that. An idea occurred to her. “Are you married?”

“Married? You mean, like to another fish?”

“Yeah.”

“Hardly.”

“Why not?”

“Have you ever seen a male bass?”

“Only in books.”

“Yeah, well, they look a lot worse close up.”

Quinn carefully lifted her up and carried her over to the side of the pontoon. “What about the females?” she asked.

“What about them?”

“Do you like them?”

“We're in Vermont. What do you think?”

Before Quinn could reply, Phoebe flipped out of her hands and dove back into the lake.

“Wait!” Quinn called after her, but it was too late. Phoebe was gone.

Quinn strained to see her beneath the surface of the water, but she'd already disappeared from sight. There wasn't even a wake to show where she'd been.

Something hit her in the face.

Then it happened again. Harder this time.

She blinked her eyes open. Rain. It was raining. Hard. She could hear thunder rolling in the distance.

When the hell did that happen?

She looked down at her clothes. They were soaked. So was her partially eaten sandwich. Three empty Backcast bottles were lined up in a tidy row next to her red Igloo.

She slowly sat up and looked over toward the live well. It was empty.

And the aerator wasn't connected.

Jesus. I fell asleep.
She rubbed her eyes.
What a crazy-ass dream.

Thunder rolled again. It sounded closer this time. She needed to get off the water.

It wasn't until she picked up her lunch box and the half-eaten sandwich that she noticed the empty Ziploc bag.

She stared down at it for a moment before looking out over the slate-gray water, which now was rolling like thick soup in a cauldron.

No fucking way . . .

Essay 4

“The question has been asked, ‘What is a woman?' A woman is a person who makes choices. A woman is a dreamer. A woman is a planner. A woman is a maker, and a molder. A woman is a person who makes choices. A woman builds bridges. A woman makes children and makes cars. A woman writes poetry and songs. A woman is a person who makes choices.”
—Eleanor Holmes Norton

A woman is a person who makes choices.

I learned that when I was ten. Maybe eleven. Certainly, I was ten or eleven, because we were living in upstate Pennsylvania. Our house was located on the outskirts of a small town on the Allegheny River. It was a sprawling, once-dignified area that had seen vast fortunes made and lost a century earlier during the Western Pennsylvania oil boom. Since those days, life on the river was anything but refined—and most of the town's residents led unremarkable lives. They lived, worked, and died in the long shadows cast by faded reminders of a better time. All around us, wide avenues and empty mansions hinted at how rich and storied life used to be. How elegant and full of promise.

But we knew better. We lived lives without promise.

At least, I did.

My father wasn't a cruel man. Not really. He was
ordinary—at least, he was ordinary in all the ways that passed for ordinary in those days. He quit school at fifteen to get a job. He enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps and served in the Pacific Theater during the latter years of World War II. He came back to Pennsylvania after his tour of duty and got a job on the railroad. And one day, he gave an orange to a pretty young woman.

A woman is a person who makes choices.

The woman who became my mother wasn't ordinary. Not in the ways other girls were. She was smart and ambitious. She excelled in things like music and Latin. She wasn't ordinary because she dared to imagine a life that was different than what she had been led by experience to expect. She had promise.

But one day, when she was sixteen years old, a good-looking man with a blinding white smile gave her an orange.

A woman is a person who makes choices.

Our house was small, but it seemed huge to me. It had three bedrooms. My two brothers shared one, and I shared another with my older sister. Looking back, it seems strange to me that I never noticed that none of the rooms in that house had doors. I didn't realize then that the absence of doors was a curious metaphor for the absence of boundaries. We moved in and out of each other's physical and emotional spaces with thoughtless ease and frightful intent.

My father worked hard. In the late afternoons, when his shift at the printing plant ended, he cut grass and pruned shrubs around some of the old oil mansions that graced the Market Street historic district. In the winter months when there was no landscaping to do, he
worked nights cleaning a bakery. He prided himself on keeping our massive, back-porch freezer stocked to the gills with beef and making sure that we all had new clothes for school every September. Those were the parameters that defined fatherhood for him—food and clothing. When he had met those two obligations, he gave himself permission to indulge his own passions for alcohol and philandering.

My siblings and I were silent witnesses to the brutal excesses of our parent's marriage. We sensed, rather than observed, our mother's desperate unhappiness. She never showed that face to us—but we saw glimmers of it in the fresh bruises that were sometimes visible in the mornings after their late-night shouting matches.

A woman is a person who makes choices.

At age ten—or eleven—I was unaware that choosing was an option. I only knew that I would forever be tasked with accepting whatever set of circumstances ended up befalling me. That was the way we defined “normal.” That was the way we understood our lives. At least, that was the way I understood
my
life.

I never told my parents about the repeated incidents of sexual abuse that were slowly making me old before my time. I never told anyone. I silently accepted it as part of who I was—and part of what I could expect my life to contain. In retrospect, it didn't seem different or unique to me at all—it seemed consistent with the rest of my life experience. And without knowing why, I understood the silent compact I kept. I embraced the secrecy, and I didn't look beyond the twisted, achingly familiar landscape of my life. There was no promise of a better life. There was only what
was
—and what
was
promised to extend into a future that was as bleak as a Western Pennsylvania winter.

A woman is a person who makes choices.

The stairway from the second story of our house came down into the kitchen. I remember that the kitchen was the biggest room in our small house. My mother filled it with wonderful sights and smells. At any time, the countertops would be lined with baked goods—all made by her. Breads, rolls, cakes—even doughnuts—would magically emerge from an old, indifferent oven that never maintained a constant temperature. The chrome-legged table would be piled high with craft projects that she had undertaken for my sister's Girl Scout troop, or my brother's Cub Scout pack—or for any of our various Sunday school classes. When we couldn't afford new drapes, my mother bought packs of crayons and we all sat together around the kitchen table and colored in the geometric shapes on the old ones. Then she heat-set the waxy blotches of new color with her ancient iron, and re-hung them. We would spend hours with her at that table, wrestling with multiplication tables, reading works like
Robinson Crusoe
from our prized set of “Illustrated Classics,” or pasting page after page of S&H Green Stamps into fat books that could later be redeemed for things like Coleman camping lanterns or electric frying pans. The most prized and least confounding hours of our lives were spent with her, in that big kitchen.

One dark winter morning, I went downstairs before the others. The porch light was on, and through the kitchen door, I could see the piles of snow my father had created when he shoveled his way out of the house to leave for work. Across the room, I could see my mother, quietly standing in front of the far counter. She was packing lunches—four of them. I stood on the bottom step and gazed at her. The chipped linoleum floor tiles stretched out between us like milestones. In that instant, she seemed to be a hundred, even a thousand
miles away from me. I watched her as she worked, arranging four thick slices of homemade bread in a row and topping each with fat rounds of bologna. I watched her.

Then I saw her.

I saw her, not as a victim, but as a woman who chose the life she had. I saw her as a woman who surrendered the promise of her youth to a hapless indiscretion, but discovered the courage and the resourcefulness to tap into a depth of character that sustained her throughout the indignities of a brutal and unequal marriage.

And I saw her as a woman who had made choices that would never be
my
choices.

I stood frozen in place, and I knew with certainty that I would never stand at a counter in a dark winter kitchen, packing four lunches for children I had made with a man I no longer loved. I knew that I would never live the life my mother lived, because I would never choose it. And in that moment, I understood for the first time that I was a woman—and that I was a woman who could make
choices.

Standing on the bottom step that day, separated from my mother by age and experience, but united with her by blood and love—I chose. I chose to stop being a victim. I chose to embrace a life that contained promise. I chose to believe that if I could be true to myself, I would have the strength to survive the worst that life could throw at me. And I chose to accept and understand the reality that I would never share my life with a man.

A woman is a person who makes choices.

My mother chose, and she lived with her choices.

I chose, and I live with mine.

5

First Blood

Kate was crying again.

That had been happening a lot since they got up here. But she always managed to wait until Shawn was out of earshot. She knew this hyper-emotionalism wasn't entirely her fault. Part of it was the damn group dynamic that hovered over this retreat like a dense cloud. It was widely known that women acted strange when they all got together like this. They tended to be more excitable and more likely to experience dramatic shifts in mood. Men made snide comments about these phenomena all the time—and that fact never failed to piss her off.

Probably because they were right.

Hell. By now, they probably were all “cycling” together.

Allie, Shawn's retriever, got up from the rug in front of the door and walked over to stand beside her. When Kate didn't respond, Allie nudged her arm.

“Sorry, girl. I'm okay.” She patted Allie's broad head and wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The garment was about two sizes too big for her and the rolled cuffs at the ends of the arms flopped over her hands. It was dark green. “North Carolina,” two-inch white letters proclaimed. “I love it here.”

She knew she was being ridiculous. But part of that was simply because she was a loner who didn't like being around other people all that much.

It was a paradox. When Sophie, Kate's partner of ten years, announced that she was leaving her to move in with a woman
half her age, she felt oddly relieved. They argued all the time, too—but their disagreements were nothing like the verbal jousting matches she was now having with Shawn. Kate and Shawn struggled with each other because they wanted to be together and couldn't—not because they were stuck with each other and couldn't find an escape route. It took Kate six months in therapy to realize that Sophie's affair was a gift. They'd both been pretty miserable for some time.

And her time with Shawn was just—different. Shawn made Kate laugh—and that wasn't an easy thing to do. Life was good when they were together. It was full of great smells and wonderful sounds. They both liked to cook. And while they chopped things and banged pots and pans around, they listened to scratchy old recordings by sharp-tongued crooners like Mildred Bailey and Dinah Washington.

Kate sniffed and swabbed at her eyes again. She looked at the door for about the twelfth time. She wanted to go after Shawn, but she knew she wouldn't. She wasn't made that way. It would be too much like admitting she'd made a mistake, and that wasn't something she ever did. When Sophie walked out on her, it broke something inside her. It was like the conduit that connected her head and her heart got severed, and all the little livewires that ran along inside it carrying messages and impulses back and forth just fell silent. She was like a cell phone without a signal—always trying to connect, but never quite succeeding.

Intellectually, she knew she just needed to quit roaming. She was never going to find anyone even remotely as perfect for her as Shawn. Everyone could tell they were right for each other—even the crazy man with the lisp and the bad comb-over who shouted rude things at them when they walked the dogs in Piedmont Park. He knew it. He had a half-bald Schnauzer he kept on a bright pink leash, and he'd snatch her back away from them when they passed by—almost like he thought they might try to steal her for use in some satanic ritual. All the while, he'd sputter and snarl at them about how they were a threat to the American family.

His long-suffering dog would groan at the sudden pressure on
her scrawny neck and look at them all with milky eyes that were full of regret.

“He's nuts,” her gaze would say. “I'd change places with any of you in a nanosecond.”

Well, the crazy man was right about one thing: when they were all together, they
were
a family. Kate understood that part, and the power of it terrified her. And it wasn't too long after the crazy man started yelling his insults at them that she began to draw up inside herself. She could sense it happening. It was like moving through a house at dusk, closing all the shutters ahead of the advancing night. Only in her case, the darkness was all on the inside, and it was the light she was shutting out.

That was when she decided to take the New York job. And even though she cried almost every night, the shutters stayed closed so she wouldn't have to worry about too much light sneaking in and complicating everything. Slowly, she got used to her dark, internal world. She moved through it like a blind mouse in a cage. Everything was safe and familiar, and she didn't have to worry about unseen obstacles.

Shawn and Allie were obstacles.
Big ones
. At least they were to Kate. She tripped over them like they were stealth pieces of furniture that someone had moved in during the middle of the night, just to trick her.

Allie gave up on trying to console Kate and reclaimed her spot on the braided rug beneath the window. Even though the curtains were drawn, the breeze drifting in off the water was pushing them around enough to allow a few bands of moonlight to spread out along the floor. Allie liked the light.

Truth be told, Patrick was beginning to like life in the light as well.

Kate was the only holdout.

Patrick got to his feet and ambled over to where the leashes were hanging on a peg behind the door. He gave them a good nudge with his nose, causing them to sway and rattle against the door glass like wind chimes.

Kate looked over at him.

“Oh. Do you need to go outside?”

He woofed and performed the little dance that always telegraphed his need to pee.

Allie was already on her feet.

Kate blew her nose on a soggy-looking tissue.

“Okay. Let's go see if we can find Mommy.”

Cut bait.

That's what Shawn heard Viv tell Quinn over and over. “Cut bait and give up on this insane idea.”

Insanity. Insanity was doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Isn't that what the shrinks all said?

But still, she kept trying. And, not surprisingly, the results stayed the same.

Kate was just going to be Kate. Period. No changes or substitutions. Just like that special she tried to order last night at dinner—a coffee-crusted, rib-eye steak served atop mashed sweet potatoes and finished with caramelized onions.

Shawn didn't much care for sweet potatoes, and she really didn't like onions.

“Could I get this with French fries instead of the mashed potatoes?” she asked their server. “And no onions?”

The server nervously shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“No, ma'am,” she said. “We're not allowed to make substitutions.”

“Why not?” Shawn thought her request seemed like a simple one.

The server shot a nervous glance at Page Archer, who was stationed like a ramrod at her post near the bar. The innkeeper's eyes swept back and forth across the dining room like a lighthouse beacon searching for trouble.

“We're just not allowed to.” The server lowered her voice. “It upsets the chef.”

Shawn was incredulous. “French fries upset the chef?”

The server nodded.

“I can understand that something like climate change might upset the chef—but French fries seem pretty harmless.”

Kate cleared her throat.

“What?” Shawn looked across the table at her. “I'm just trying to understand.”

“You don't
need
to understand. You need to make another selection.”

“But I want a steak.”

“Shawn.” Kate gestured toward their antsy server, who was absently tapping her pen against her notepad. “Life is not an unending salad bar. You don't always get to pick and choose. Any chef worth their salt undergoes years of training precisely so they can combine foods and flavors in unique and creative ways that will be pleasing to even the most unrefined palates.” She paused. “Or in your case, the nonexistent ones.”

“Hey.” Shawn bristled at Kate's insinuation.

Kate waved her off and addressed their server. “Bring her the flatiron steak, medium rare, with potato pancakes. And add a side of mustard.”

“Right.” The server collected their menus and hurried off.

In retrospect, Shawn had to admit that Kate knew her pretty well. Even though this diatribe of hers about substitutions was a complete red herring.

“Explain something to me.” Shawn sat back and crossed her arms. “How come when I ask for an accommodation it's an endemic example of my total lack of refinement? But when
you
do it, it's an expression of reasonable expectations?”

Kate shrugged.

“Nuh uh.” Shawn wagged an index finger at her. “No fair.”

“No fair?”

Shawn nodded.

“What? Are we back in the third grade?”

“Maybe.”

“I never was very good at those playground games.”

“Yeah. I can imagine that ‘play' part of playground caused you some problems.”

Kate rolled her eyes.

“You know it's true.”

“Shawn. Could we please just enjoy our dinner?”

As it turned out, they didn't really enjoy their dinner. Shawn was mostly silent through the duration of the meal, and by the time they got back to their room, it was clear that Kate had grown weary of trying to ignore her.

“Will you please quit sulking?”

Shawn had flopped down on one of the room's two upholstered chairs and was mindlessly tapping the keycard against her thigh.

“I am
not
sulking.”

“Really?” Kate was hanging up her jacket. “What is it, then? Terminal PMS?”

Shawn continued with her tapping.

“Do you want to tell me what's really on your mind? Because I somehow doubt that this epic silent treatment has anything to do with not getting the French fries you wanted for dinner.”

Shawn sighed. “I'd just like to understand why it is that you feel like you can change the subject whenever something comes up that you don't want to discuss.”

Kate raised an eyebrow. “You mean like right now?”

“Very funny.”

“I do try.”

“Yeah? Well right now it ain't a-workin.”

“Honey.” Kate sat down on the edge of the bed. “You can't be too upset if you're quoting
Sordid Lives
.”

“I'm pissed, not comatose.”

“Okay.” Kate took a deep breath. “What do you want to talk about?”

Shawn was suspicious. “Really?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “No. Not really. This is all an elaborate ruse, artfully designed to conceal my sinister plans for world domination.”

“Will you please be serious?”

“I
am
being serious. You're just determined to insist that I'm not.”

Shawn kicked at one of Allie's dog toys. This one was “Henrietta,” an elongated rubber chicken, tricked out with thick, blue eye shadow and a purple bikini.

It was her current favorite.

Allie was rarely seen without the toy, and had chewed it to the point that it was now sporting several prominent puncture wounds. One of them was located in the general vicinity of the groin area, and a thick wad of white stuffing was usually visible when Allie carried the thing around.

Kate nicknamed the toy “Henrietta Husky Snatch.”

It made an obnoxious squeal as it tumbled across the floor, causing Allie to bolt up from her post on the rug near the door. She cast about the room like she was certain that someone had just fired off a volley of gunfire. Then she saw her beloved chicken and lunged for it, clamping it between her jaws and hauling it off to safer territory.

Kate shook her head. “That thing really creeps me out.”

“I know. But she loves it.”

“There's certainly no accounting for taste.”

“True dat.”

Kate looked at her. “So what did you want to discuss?”

Shawn glared at her. “I repeat: do you really have to ask?”

“Apparently.”

Shawn waved a hand in frustration. “I just don't understand why we can't have a civilized conversation about where our relationship is headed.”

“Why does it have to be ‘headed' anyplace? What's wrong with where it is?”

“Because right now it's nowhere.”

“Nowhere?”

Shawn nodded.

“I think that's a little bit excessive, don't you?”

“Not really.”

Shawn knew that Kate was miserable right now. The impermanence of a turnpike existence, shuttling back and forth between her New York apartment, her home in Atlanta, and Shawn's house in Charlotte was loathsome to her. And she wasn't exactly passionate about her high-profile job, either. Yet whenever Shawn broached the topic of finding a more centrally located place for them to live together, Kate bristled and changed the subject.

Tonight wasn't the first time that had happened on this trip, either.

“I want to know why you have an embargo on any conversations about our future?”