Page 22

Palm Springs

January 3, 2023

8:00 P.M.

The fifth time—the last time—that Grant left, I really thought we might be through.

Hobie said that experienced hikers know they’ll inadvertently walk in a circle when they’re lost, so they’ll scratch a line in a tree or on a rock and scratch it again the second, third, fourth time they’ve found themselves in the same spot. That’s what I’ve been doing in my head as I wait for news—marking the same painful spot where I hurt Grant; going back again and again to the only other time when Grant had been missing this long.

Camp Jamboree had changed hands, and the new owner purchased giant inflatable water toys that Burl would have hated. Still, I wanted the girls to get a taste of the same childhood I’d had, so every year they spent several weeks there. Grant and I had a long stretch of time to ourselves, and we’d hole up in Burl’s house on the other side of the lake—he’d passed it down to me.

The cabin wasn’t worth much. It was old, and without Burl to maintain it, it had fallen into neglect. It wasn’t on the water but accessible via a footpath leading to the no-wake lake. Our quiet wasn’t interrupted by Jet Skis or the trolling motor on a fishing boat. The only sounds we could hear were the hiss of cicadas, the belching of bull frogs, and the voices of children laughing, playing, and singing on the other side of the lake.

The roof shingles were moldy, the lawn was always damp, and the foliage was so dense it could have gobbled up the house. Inside, it smelled like soil and fish and dead mice and musty carpeting. The cushions on the wicker furniture were damp and heavy with mildew and made Grant’s eyes water. Every year I’d drag the furniture and cushions outside to let them bake in the sun, and I’d open every window even though the no-see-ums and mosquitoes could sneak in through the holes in the rusty screens. The tap spit out rusty brown water that smelled of sulfur. It was the kind of place most people would reject, but I loved it, at first because it reminded me of Burl, and over the years because it contained happy memories of the time I spent with Grant.

The cabin had the same ingredients that made Camp Jamboree so special for me when I was a kid: water, sun, warmth, and, most important, no adult responsibilities. It was the place where Grant and I were at our best, tucked away from the world, grateful for every minute without interruption.

Part of the spark of our relationship was the time we spent apart during the week. Weekends, we came together with the passion of reunited lovers. In the summers, we fell into a lazier, easier rhythm. Grant cooked pancakes on the skillet for breakfast. In the afternoons, we’d sit in the golden light of the sunporch, my head in Grant’s lap as he read, his free hand tracing the outline of my eyebrows and the bridge of my nose. There was no Wi-Fi, and limited cell reception. Nothing beckoned. We had only each other.

I didn’t try to fill up our time. We played Yahtzee and charades. We explored the trails. When it rained, we watched old VHS movies on the black-and-white television. We ate and drank wine in the flickering candlelight and talked about all the drama we experienced at work with our colleagues, our concerns and hopes for the girls, our dreams for the future. Burl had taught me how to play guitar—no campfire is complete without one—and at night I’d strum along as we harmonized (badly) to “Take It Easy” by the Eagles.

Every year, our most romantic tradition was to paddle out to the middle of the lake, jump in, and “marry” each other. We recited vows to give back rubs and not leave dishes in the sink; to eat crunchy food out of earshot, to be patient and kind, to always love each other. Without the slightest hesitation, we’d shout “I do!” at the same time, our voices skipping off the lake’s surface. I felt more married to Grant in those moments than I might have felt in a church wedding.

There’s a pine forest nearby, a relic from Depression-era WPA projects, when the workers planted the pine trees at neat intervals. Sometimes, we played a game I’d learned at camp where Grant put a bandanna around my eyes and hid while I counted to ten.

“Grant!” I’d called out when I finished counting.

“Here,” he whispered.

I walked through the forest with my hands out in front of me, touching the soft bark of the trees. “Grant!” I’d call again.

“Over heeeere. You’re getting warmer.” His voice would grow a little louder with each reply, letting me know he’d soon let me find him. “Warmer, so hot, you’re burning up.” Then I’d touch him, and we’d tumble onto the ground.

By the end of our blissful time together, as we began thinking about our return to normal life, Grant would begin with his annual entreaty. “Move with me to Mounds. We can be a campus family. We can sell our house in Madison for a good price and buy one of those big old Victorians with a turret on Cherry Street. They cost next to nothing.” He was right. Before NAFTA, Mounds had been a thriving manufacturing community. The executives had lived near the college, leaving behind grand homes that were practically free for the taking.

“That’s because nobody wants to live there,” I said. I was determined never to give Mounds a chance. It represented his other life. In truth, it was because that’s where Sasha lived, and even though I liked her—loved her, even—the town would never be big enough for the two of us. Or was Sasha just an excuse? Did I think that the only way I could keep Grant was at a distance?

“Mounds is really coming back. Some tech guys from San Fran cisco moved their business to that old warehouse by the river. They call it the Silicon Valley of the Midwest.”

“That’s what they call every small town.”

“You wouldn’t even have to work if you don’t want to. You can pick up painting—there’s a studio on campus you can use anytime.”

“No way, Grant. I like my job enough. I like our little house. I love Madison. It’s always rated a best place to live for a reason.” I’d been looking forward to finally enjoying my freedom, and the space and time to figure out what to do next. I’d made my life in Madison, and I wanted to reap the benefits. Not move.

“Come on, Kimmy. My students can babysit. We can go out all the time. We can have parties.”

“Parties with all your faculty friends? And Sasha? No thanks. All we’d talk about is intersectionality.”

He’d launch into his arsenal of arguments as if counting them off on his fingers. “Dort will be there. The girls can come to campus after school and do homework in my office. You’ve always wanted more children. We could adopt or become foster parents. In Mounds we can be a real family.”

“We already are a real family.”

But were we?

His line of reasoning was always the same, and so was my answer: no, no, no. “The commute isn’t ideal, but it works for us.”

“Easy for you to say because I’m the one doing it. I’m lonely, Kim. It hurts me to go to bed and wake up by myself. I miss band concerts and teacher conferences and homework. Look how we are here. We’re so good together, Kimmy. You can trust that. We could be good together all the time. ”

“We’re on vacation! It wouldn’t be like this if I came to Mounds. We’d have laundry and—”

“How do you know that? I admit it isn’t the sexiest place. It isn’t on anyone’s list, but there’s a river. A park. The town has a history. It has a heart.”

“It has vape shops. A uniform store. Liberty Tax. Giant tents where they sell fireworks.”

“What’s wrong with being exposed to some diversity of opinion?”

“Gun stores.”

“We could have a good life.”

“But we already have a good life.”

“We’re only half-together. What are you afraid of? Just because your mom and Burl lived apart doesn’t mean we have to.”

We covered the same ground again and again and again. The more Grant asked, the more I dug my heels in without realizing how much it hurt him.

Our last summer there, Grant lobbied harder than usual. With the girls entering college, he knew this was his final opportunity. I’d always argued that I needed to stay in Madison so as not to disrupt the girls; now that argument was moot.

We went out in the canoe and jumped in the lake to say our vows, but it felt more as if we were performing. “I promise to laugh at your dumb jokes,” I said.

“I’ll wipe the sink after I brush my teeth.”

“I’ll always be honest with you. Always.”

“And I’ll be faithful. I will never, ever cheat on you.”

“I will be true to you forever.”

I knew something was up because he grew quiet and tense.

Once we got back to shore, he ran into the cottage and returned to where I sat in an Adirondack chair. I assumed he was about to ask me to marry him. My alimony had run out years earlier. We talked about marrying occasionally, but I didn’t see the point, not when we could seal our relationship with our annual ceremony at the lake.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said.

I’d expected a jewelry box. Instead, he handed me an envelope. “What’s this?”

Inside I didn’t find a ring; I found an old key with a pink ribbon tied to the end of it. It felt heavier than it should have.

“You know that house on Cherry Street that Erika from the dance department owned? The one you said was your favorite? Well, Kimmy, I bought it with some of the money I’d inherited when Stew died.” He was grinning from ear to ear.

“You did what ?”

“Erika took a new position at Grinnell. She sold it to me for a song. No Realtor fees, no nothing. The mortgage is basically what I pay for rent anyway. We’ll hardly notice it. You’ll love it, Kim. The kitchen has been redone. There’s a coffered ceiling in the living room. Stained glass. Marble in the bathrooms. She just had it painted.”

“Grant, do you mean to say that you bought an entire house without even telling me?”

“Well, you bought a house. I don’t recall you consulting me first.”

“But I bought it for us when we needed a place to live.”

He paused. “That’s what I did, too. Kim, the girls are done with high school. As of September, Dort is going to be at Mounds, too, for Christ’s sake! You don’t need to be in Madison anymore. Why wouldn’t you want to be with me, with us?”

I turned the key over in my hand, over and over. “I’m not moving to Mounds, Grant. That’s not what I want. I have my job, my friends, my book club, my gym membership, my volunteer—”

“Would you just think about it for two minutes?”

“Why do you do this? Why do you make us have the same conversation again and again? It always comes to the same conclusion.” I was boiling with the frustration I was afraid to show because I was always so afraid he’d snap, but I had my breaking point, too. “You never listen to me when I tell you that I am never moving to Mounds, not ever.”

That’s when I did something that haunts me now: I threw the key into the lake.

He said nothing as we watched the ripples spread and flatten. A tear slipped out of his eye, a leak springing from a giant aquifer of pain. “You’ll never know how much I adore you, or how much this hurts me,” he said. Grant went inside, packed up his things, and walked out the door.

I didn’t see him again for a few days. I wasn’t worried about where he had gone—I knew he would have walked to the county highway and hitchhiked all the way back to his new house. What I worried about was that the great, enduring love of my life was over, not because we couldn’t get along, not because we didn’t love each other enough, but because we couldn’t agree on where to live. I thought for sure this was it, and I was so sick about it I didn’t know how to go on. What would I tell the girls? How could I explain that my stubbornness—and his—broke up our family?

When Grant showed up in Madison two days later, we held each other and cried. There were no apologies, no more entreaties. The fever broke, and life went back to its old patterns. The girls moved out and I was left alone in Madison, and Grant moved all by himself into that beautiful old house where he said he rolled around like a pea in a bottle. I’d visit occasionally. We’d paint and wallpaper. We decorated it with furniture we’d found at garage sales. He shared it with an occasional visiting scholar, or he’d rent the guest rooms to adjuncts, and Dort liked to join him for dinner on occasion. When the college closed, one of his renters bought it from him.

We never went back to the cabin because the roof collapsed from the weight of the snow that winter, and the whole thing had to be torn down. Grant never asked me to move again.

Now, I’m haunted by the decisions I made—and didn’t make. I could have shown some flexibility. I could have moved, if that would have made Grant happy. I thought I was being the type of strong, independent woman Polly had raised me to be. Maybe I was right that Madison had been best for the girls, and best for me, but had it been best for our family to be separated the way we were? My friends always tried to cultivate their own lives within their marriages, but how much independence is too much? Is it possible to achieve deep companionship with a ton of freedom?

Since he’s been gone, I keep remembering the time we’d spent in the camp pine forest. The trees, planted in their orderly rows that defied nature, crowded out the sun. I saw only a bit of light creeping in from under my bandanna. I felt dead pine needles under my feet.

“Where are you?” I shouted.

“You’re getting warmer,” he called back.

I waited and waited for the sound of Grant’s voice to call out to me again, but it only grew more faint. I could just barely make out him saying, “I’m here, Kimmy. I’m over here. Come find me.”

There is a part of me that forever calls out his name, that always seeks to find him.

It’s hard to believe now that we could have turned losing each other into a game.