A Marriage Made at Woodstock (10 page)

“Please don't do that,” said the young man. Surely this was one of the cretin sons, but which one? He looked at Frederick again, still with disgust. “Freakin' incredible,” he said again.

“You do remember Teddy?” Joyce asked.

Condom Boy?
Frederick wondered. He held his hand out to Teddy, who ignored it.

“We invited Robert to dinner, too,” said Joyce. “But he's at that age where he doesn't want to eat with us anymore.” She shoved a dish of lasagna toward Frederick and he helped himself to a couple clumps of it. He was careful to inspect the bits of black olive in case they were Budgie droppings. As he was about to fit a bite of salad onto his fork, something came rattling down the long table toward him. Frederick jumped. His first reaction was that Bobo the cat had gone berserk. What cat wants a poodle? The commotion stopped and Frederick saw before him a miniature Conestoga wagon, laden with garlic bread.

“Reginald's class is studying about the pioneers,” said Joyce. Frederick stared at the loaf of French bread that protruded three inches from the wagon's back flap.

“I MAKE HISTORY COME ALIVE,” Reginald said, and grinned.

“Right,” said Teddy. “That was some trouble the pioneers had crossing the Garlic Bread Trail.” He tore a chunk of bread from the loaf. “And they think
my
generation is dumb.”

“THOSE WAGONS WERE SOMETHING,” Reginald was now saying. “LOOK AT THOSE WHEELS. THEY'D NEVER SINK IN MUD. AND THAT CURVED FLOOR INSIDE KEPT THE CARGO FROM SLIDING AROUND.” Frederick felt as though he were sitting next to an immense helicopter, its blades rotating thunderously.

“Oh thank God,” said Teddy. “The bread will be safe.” He burped. This seemed to excite Budgie, who shuffled out of the ivy and lit with a small bounce on Teddy's shoulder.

“I hope you don't mind pets,” Joyce said to Frederick.

“THEY COULD HAUL UP TO SIX TONS,” Reginald added. “SOMEONE SHOULD BRING THE CONESTOGA BACK, AND YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST.” He tapped the table dramatically. Budgie did a quick little dance up into the air, then resettled on Teddy's shoulder. “WHEN WE'VE DEPLETED OUR NATURAL RESOURCES AND COMPLETELY RUINED THE OZONE, WATCH WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN IN A BIG WAY. C
ONESTOGAS.
”

“Freakin' incredible,” Teddy said. He pulled another chunk off the garlic bread log. Reginald gave the Conestoga a push. It rolled over to Teddy's plate and bumped to a stop against it.

“HERE, SON,” said Reginald. “IT'S NOT POLITE TO REACH.” Teddy stood up so quickly that his chair rocked behind him. Budgie retreated to the ivy jungle.

“Where are you going?” Joyce asked. She turned her head, but the enormous green wig held fast.

“Out to deplete our natural resources and ruin the ozone,” Teddy answered over his shoulder. “I'll try to have the buckboard back at midnight.”

“NO, SON,” Reginald protested. “THE
BUCKBOARD
IS A WHOLE DIFFERENT ANIMAL.” Frederick listened as the back door slammed abruptly and then all was quiet in the kitchen. “MORE BREAD?” Reginald gave the miniature wagon another push. It came rolling toward Frederick in an aroma of fresh bread, instead of the brown dust of the Oregon Trail. The Donner party would have loved this Conestoga. He tried not to think of Chandra, of how the two of them had stopped accepting dinner invitations from Joyce. He wondered if Reginald knew that he made
dinner
come alive, instead of history. He thought about Teddy, out depleting and ruining virgins, of the soggy condoms that were probably above Frederick's head at that very moment, fermenting, rooting in the darkness of some dresser drawer. Unless Reginald had stowed them in the Conestoga. With the curved floor, they wouldn't slide about.

“Bobo has a urinary tract infection,” Joyce said now. “He has to take a great big pill every day for a month. Don't ooh, sweet-ums?” she asked a chair over by the window. Frederick followed her gaze and was surprised to see a very large cat, its eyes stonily yellow, staring at him from atop a throw pillow. No wonder his nose had been tickling fiendishly. He had thought for one wild moment that he might be allergic to Teddy. Or he had caught Parrot's Fever from Budgie.

“THE CONESTOGA GAVE BIRTH TO THE PRAIRIE SCHOONER,” Reginald said. “BUT THE BUCKBOARD, WELL, THAT'S A WHOLE NEW BALL GAME.”

Frederick wished Chandra could see him now, wished she could witness this final decline, wished Reginald could make the
future
come to life. His eyes watered and the end of his nose vibrated. He nodded thankfully as Reginald poured more drink from the martini pitcher. He was now forced to admit that Joyce was right. He was smack dab in a big pond of denial. His future held many dinners with Joyce and Reginald and Teddy and Bobo. He would probably end up godfather to the toy poodle. A pretend uncle. In a short time, Budgie would roost on his head. Frederick Stone's future was dead, and he had as much chance for a comeback as did the mighty Conestoga.

Beneath your perfume and makeup

You're just a baby in disguise…

So hurry home to your mama

I'm sure she wonders where you are…

Better run, girl,

You're much too young, girl.

—Gary Puckett & the Union Gap

It was a week after Chandra's departure that Frederick spotted the red Toyota. He was making a right turn on Harrison Street when he saw her zoom by, her hair in a ponytail. He hit his brake pedal and made a quick turn. If he could follow her, maybe he could find out where she was living, even talk a bit of sense into her. He felt muscles tighten in his stomach. His heart was racing. Jesus, but he had thought this kind of emotional stuff would be over after he turned thirty. Certainly by
forty
. He pulled back onto Harrison in time to see the Toyota zooming through the next set of lights, which were yellow. He felt a flash of anger. How many times had he told her not to do that? How often had he reminded her of the danger? The traffic light flashed red just as Frederick pulled up to it. He could run it, couldn't he? Traffic was mild. There was even a space coming up behind a florist truck. He watched the disappearing Toyota as it grew smaller, careening down the street away from him, toward new events that were taking place in his wife's life, events he knew nothing of, events that excluded him. He could rush through the red light in time to catch her. There was no police car lurking about. But Frederick sat meekly before the round red eye of authority, and waited. He hated himself, but he waited. By the time the light flashed green, telling the wimps of the world that they could proceed like orderly sheep, he had no chance at all of catching Chandra. She had probably run the next yellow light, too. “But, Freddy, it's the chicken light,” she had always protested after each of his traffic lectures. “If you don't run it, you're yellow.”

Frederick Stone pulled into a 7-Eleven and went inside for a cup of coffee. He needed something to settle the cloud of distress that had formed in his stomach. He made sure to take the largest Styrofoam cup the establishment had to offer, a little protest of his own. The door to the 7-Eleven had barely closed behind him when he glanced up to see the red Toyota on its way back down the street! He watched as Chandra braked at the four-way stop. He could even see the brownish-blond of the bouncy ponytail and hear music coming from the radio. This was as close as he'd been to his wife in a week. He tossed his coffee into a trash barrel by the gas pumps and bolted for his car. He heard Chandra's tires squeal as the Toyota launched out again. He did his own squealing as he pulled out into the street. He only slowed for the four-way stop. He hated himself for doing this. It wasn't his turn, but there was a clear, safe opening. He barreled on through only to hear two horns blast their annoyance. He wished he could stop and explain, but there was no time for that. He could still see the ass end of the Toyota as it rolled up to a red light farther down the street. He had a perfect opportunity to pull up behind Chandra until a Domino's Pizza truck shot out of its home office and into the street in front of him. The colorful sign on top was lighted. Frederick hit his brakes and jerked up behind the pickup.

“Little bastard,” he said, and honked his horn. He saw the driver hoist his middle finger up in the rearview mirror. This was the language of today's generation, invented by Frederick's generation. Only, it had meant something in the sixties. It had meant
more
than what it meant now. Holding one's middle finger up at the president of some university had meant entire sentences, paragraphs, pages, books. It meant “Your policy is unconstitutional. Racial segregation is matriculating here. Sexual discrimination is rampant. This university is investing in companies that in turn supply the war in Southeast Asia.” Holding up one's middle finger in the sixties could be exhaustive. Now all it meant was “Get the fuck out of my way, mister. I got to get this pizza to Bubba within thirty minutes.” Frederick thought of Chandra's presence just ahead of him and floored the accelerator pedal. The nose of his car came to within a foot of the pickup's bumper and held fast, like one dog sniffing another, a desperate play for dominance as he and the Domino's Pizza boy tore down Harrison Street. Through the windshield of the pickup before him, he could see Chandra's Toyota run the yellow light, the very one she'd ignored on her maiden voyage. He dropped back to a few feet behind the pickup, anticipating the idiot in front of him. Would he stop for the light? Probably not. Not with a brain operating on automatic pilot for another ten years. Frederick guessed right, because the pizza truck passed through the intersection just as the light flicked from yellow to red. Now Frederick himself had two or three seconds to decide. He hit the gas pedal and ran the red light. It was the Frederick of the sixties, the man Chandra had met at Woodstock and fallen in love with. If only she could see him now. When he reached her, when he caught the Toyota, he would tell her. It would be his own testament to their love, a visual poem he'd written himself. He nursed the brake just a bit, since one foot
did
belong to his alter ego, and ignored the fanfare of angry toots that rang out around him. But out of the fanfare grew a more curious sound, a whine sharper than a horn or a serpent's tooth, a
sirenlike
sound, and Frederick was reminded of the magical voices of those mythical nymphs, how Orpheus had rescued the Argonauts from them by playing so wonderfully upon his lyre. Good old Orpheus. He had had a heartbreaking marriage, too, hadn't he? And, like Frederick running the red light, he had descended into hell for his beloved Eurydice. But now a blue light was flashing in his rearview mirror and Frederick recognized the whine for what it was, one that had lured so many drivers to traffic court. He knew immediately that there would be
two
tickets, one for speeding and one for running the red light. As he pulled over to the curb and sat waiting, Frederick wondered if he should attempt to charm the policeman, as Orpheus had charmed all of Hades. But bribery was a lot worse than running a light. Instead, he stared off in the direction of Chandra's car, just as Orpheus had foolishly turned and looked back at Eurydice, the gray of Hades still engulfing her. What had her faint final word been as she descended back into the netherworld where he couldn't follow? “Farewell.” But this was not the word that Frederick heard as he sat with his head bowed, his heart aching for his wild, lovely wife.

“License?” the policeman asked.

• • •

At six o'clock that evening, Frederick was pacing the floor of his office. It finally culminated with him slamming the palm of his hand down on the desk. He was careful not to use his fist since, after all, he made a living with his hands. The slap was substantial enough, however, to topple the picture of him and Chandra taken at Woodstock soon after they met. It was this image of her, her hair in braids, her peasant blouse puffed at the shoulders, her braless breasts outlined beneath, that sent him out into the evening shadows and back to the corner of Harrison Street where he had seen the red Toyota go streaking by. Maybe, just maybe, it was an intersection that she passed often in her new life, her new part of town. If he did see her car, he wouldn't speed. He had learned his lesson earlier in the day. But he would flash his lights erratically. He would send out beacons of longing and would hope that he would not cause any great ships to come ashore. He had committed enough traffic violations for one day.

It was almost eight o'clock when he finally gave up. He drove home slowly, taking his time, driving out of his way to find the spots that had meant something to them as a couple: the Portland Museum, Longfellow's house, DeMilo's floating bar. Off in the distance he could see the fuzzy lights of Peak's Island. How many times had they gone to dinner there, taking the twenty-minute ferry ride in order to dine at Will's Restaurant? Once, Frederick had even become locked in the bathroom at Will's, the doorknob refusing to turn. And he had waited fifteen minutes, a smile on his face as he listened to Chandra on the other side of the door giving instructions to the owner in the art of
jimmying
. These were the thoughts coming to him as he drove back down the cul-de-sac on Ellsboro Street, to the Victorian house with its screened-in porch, to the king-size bed that he had once shared with a woman who used to love him, and who still wore peasant blouses.

• • •

Frederick was thinking of watching a movie on television when the phone rang, a few minutes before nine. His first thought was that it was Chandra. He had heard nothing at all from her since she'd hung up on him. Twice he'd come home to find a note taped to the door, saying that she'd stopped by to collect a few things. But the call was from Herb, his voice tinny but excited, calling no doubt from the bowels of the China Boat.

“Let's go to dinner,” Herb offered. “My treat.” Frederick quickly understood the alternative: sitting in his living room and staring blankly at the television set. Even a stray cat turning up in search of a hobo's meal would have been welcoming.

“Sounds good,” Frederick said. He tried not to think of how he had always turned down Herbert's offers to dinner before Chandra left him. The past was past. In just one week Frederick Stone had grown. He was a new man. A better human being. He could be ready in minutes, a quick shower and shave. He would wear the tan sports coat, his most comfortable.

“Ready when you are,” Herbert said. Frederick smiled. Herbert was probably on the pay phone at the China Boat. He reminded himself not to be critical of his brother during dinner, not even when Herb ordered his mandarin duck.

“It'll take you fifteen minutes to drive over here,” Frederick said. “I'll be ready by then.” He was about to hang up.

“I'm here now,” Herb said. Frederick heard what sounded like tires crunching the crushed rock in his driveway. “I'm just turning into your drive.” Frederick flicked back the kitchen curtain and stared out at the headlights in his yard. He saw the silhouette of a hand flutter, his brother, Herbert, waving hello to him.

“You're
what
?”

“I'm in your driveway,” Herb said. “You know,
veni, vidi, vici
. That's Roman for
grab
your
coat
.”

“Herb,” Frederick said. He told himself again not to be critical. “How many times have I asked you to phone before you drop in?”

“I did phone,” Herbert reminded him.

“Yes, but you're sitting in my yard.”

“I can't believe you don't have one of these cellular contraptions,” Herbert said. “A man like you should look to the future.”

“Herbert,” Frederick said. The phone still pressed to his ear, he felt a warmth spreading across his face and neck. He had recently read that modern gadgets such as cellular phones were clogging the microwave frequency band where scientists were trying to listen for sounds of life from other worlds. “It's getting to the point where we won't be able to hear a message from other planets because of people like you, with your garage door openers and your damn cellular phones.”

“Watson, come here, I want you,” Herbert whispered.

“People like you are clogging up our window on the universe with so much microwave babble that we're going to sound like a bee buzzing its ass off, out there in space. What intelligent life form wants to visit a buzzing little insect?”

“
I'm
visiting
you,”
said Herbert.

Frederick was about to release the curtain and grab his jacket when he saw a round orange spark now glowing inside Herbert's car. Herbert was smoking again, and soon Frederick would have to breathe in the entrails of that smoky air.

“Herbert?”

“Yes, Freddy?”

“Are you sitting in my yard smoking?”

“No.”

“What's that orange glow I see?”

“I brought my pet goldfish with me,” Herbert said, and Frederick could hear him laugh.

“One of these days I'm going to say I told you so,” Frederick said.

“Well, I'll be dead and won't be able to hear you,” said Herbert. “And besides, what's wrong with lighting up in your yard? Am I gonna kill the shrubs with secondhand smoke?”

“There you are, a veterinarian, smoking two packs a day,” Frederick said. “As a professional, you should know better.” He peered out into the darkening yard to see if Herbert was perhaps gesturing, although Frederick had already received his quota of middle fingers that day.

“I don't treat many dogs with a nicotine habit, Freddy. Lighten up.” Frederick saw the orange ball blaze brightly. Herbert was taking a big puff. “Now, are you going to stay on the telephone all night, or are you coming to dinner? No wonder you drove Chandra out of the house.”

• • •

Within minutes of being seated at a table near the window, Herbert began to fidget. He patted his breast pocket as though in search of a pack of cigarettes.

“I hope you don't intend to smoke,” Frederick said. He glanced around at his fellow diners, all cramped into the small area of the restaurant designated as Smoking Permitted. With restored beams looming above their heads—the building had been renovated to resemble the belly of a ship—the clientele looked like galley slaves, their forks rising to their mouths, falling, rising. Heave-ho!

“Back in a jiffy,” Herbert said, and stood up. “I just spotted someone I know.”

“Who?” Frederick asked.

“Client,” Herbert answered. “Three-year-old cocker spaniel. Fractured tibia.” He was gone. Frederick watched his departure with mild interest. The restaurant was packed with hungry diners, and the bar area bulging with the drunken aftermath of happy hour. A waitress dressed as a geisha appeared at the table.