The Elegant Gathering of White Snows (27 page)
T
HE FIRST DAY OF
M
AY
has ushered in clouds as tall as the Empire State Building and a wildly dark horizon that is forcing back an endless succession of clouds the color of the turquoise stones Sandy wears in rings on half of her fingers.
Yet no one is worried about the weather, and Alice—who can tell time, test the wellness of meat, and talk to people in France via the arthritic joints in her body—says with all certainty, “It ain't gonna rain.” When the women decide suddenly to turn south on a picturesque lane that crosses through the middle of the county, she adds, “Besides, why people worry about the weather has always puzzled me. What in the name of the good Lord can we do about it anyway?”
The women are scattered across the width of Pembury Lane, and now that their sore ankles and calf muscles have adapted to the daily rigors of walking, they are moving at a pace never before seen on this tree-lined lane. None of the women has ever been particularly athletic, and this is the day they may realize that perhaps they have missed the boat when it comes to exercise.
“Can you imagine how great we would feel if we had decent shoes and equipment?” Janice asks.
“Lots of that junk you read about is nothing more than marketing hype and entirely bogus,” Chris says.
“You have on Nikes, Chris, so what in the hell are you talking about?” Sandy snorts.
“I got these for twenty-five bucks, for your information. What I'm talking about is top-of-the-line stuff that all the kids covet. If you walk around in flip-flops your entire life, there probably is a good chance your arches will drop and your ankles will slump and your toes will curl under before you're fifty. Come on, did you ever spend $150 for a friggin' pair of tennis shoes?”
Alice, who thinks expensive is a big meal at Pizza Hut, can't help but laugh at her friends. She is wearing a pair of black oxfords with a fake leather and canvas middle and hard rubber soles that she purchased six years ago out of a
McCall's
magazine for $19.95. “These babies have taken me around this county about fifty-six times, you know. Now that we are all used to this walking, I think we'd be pretty smart cookies to keep it up the rest of our lives.”
Everyone, even Susan, who continues to vomit twice a day, agrees that the walking has made them stronger. No one has mentioned stopping, but the women agree that when the time comes, they will most likely add walking to their meetings once they go back home.
“If we are ever allowed to get together again,” laughs J.J., who has imagined walking until she ends up in a foreign country, hopefully some place warm with tall, booze-filled glasses and men who wear tight shorts and smile with their bright teeth.
There is a fine rhythm now to their walking that could be set to music—a back-and-forth kind of stroll that picks up and slows down when someone stops to tie a shoe or needs to sit on a log for a short rest.
Because their lives have been filled with the needs and wants of the rest of the world, of their husbands and babies and mothers and fathers and lovers, the women have sucked in the silence of the Wilkins County countryside as if they are inhaling the most pure air that ever floated close to Earth.
Sometimes they walk with their eyes closed, leaning against each other and listening for nothing but the sound of the shoes and the birds that are as curious as all the human onlookers and the wind whipping through the beautiful pines. Once when Alice started to whistle, it made Gail cry because she remembered that same sound from a time ago when her own grandfather worked down in his basement workshop.
Each one of the women has talked about how the walking has forced something up through the soles of her feet, into her stomach, then to the heart, past the throat and right to the lips. These women who have always loved women have grown to love each other in a deeper way and have never felt so unbelievably content.
“I believe I could tell you that I murdered twelve children and twelve adults and then ate their clothing, and you would want me to talk about why I did that as we sat and held hands,” Chris observed the day before as they were sipping lemonade that someone had left for them at the side of the road.
“Well, honey,” J.J. said, “twelve might be pushing it just a bit far.”
“She's right, though,” Susan said. “My God, look at us. I'm knocked up, some of us have screwed up royally, we all have some secret tragedy yet here we are, sipping lemonade as if we've just finished a round of bridge and had some brownies.”
“I hope you don't find this too amazing,” Sandy said. “Women are like this, you know. If any of you had any sense, you'd dump your men and jump on my bandwagon with me.”
“Dears, dears,” Alice said forcefully, “some men, so I've heard, especially the sons of women like us, can be good girlfriends too. But I don't know, it just isn't the same talking with a man about menstrual cycles, making love with a woman, and stretch marks, now is it?”
“It's a stretch, Alice baby, it's one long goddamn stretch,” Chris sighed.
In three hours, the women walk seven miles, and Alice grins when the sky opens up and the sun comes back out. Susan has walked ahead, and when the women catch up to her, she stands just off the highway in front of three paper bags and a box of papers that are covered with a big plastic garbage bag.
“What is it?” J.J. asks.
“Well, lunch for one thing and it looks like a bunch of letters, notes and things,” Alice says, examining the bag.
As they carry the bags of food and the letters over to the base of a big oak tree, the walkers quickly discover everything from a tablecloth and napkins to ham sandwiches, drinks, and carrots and celery all cut up neatly.
“Good Lord, we have lots of guardian angels,” Alice says, dishing out the food and drinks. “Girls, grab those letters and let's eat.”
Susan, clutching the mail in her hands, starts reading first. She sits at the edge of the tablecloth, unable to move or eat as she begins reading out loud:
“‘Dear Ladies—My husband and I have been watching you on television every night, and we want you to know that we think you are a bunch of sick lezbeens and you are all going to go to hell. Women who leave their children and husbands deserve to be punished. We both believe you'll be damned for what you are doing.'”
The women all stop eating and look at Susan as if a snake the size of New Hampshire has crawled right out of her mouth and spoken French.
“Holy shit,” says Sandy. “What the hell is that all about?”
“It's probably from my mother,” Janice comments with a smile.
“Keep reading,” Chris encourages. “This is cool.”
Susan opens another letter.
“‘To the Walkers: I have wanted to take off like you are doing for the past twenty-three years. My husband is a jackass, but he has all the money in his name. This morning when I listened to the radio and heard that you are still going, I got the idea to sell the car, the stereo, anything I can get my hands on while Joe is at work. If you ever get this, I will be on my way back to New York. I should never have left. Thank you for giving me this inspiration. Your fan, Bernice P.'”
“That's one for one. Keep reading, for crissakes, how many are there?” Sandy wonders.
“About thirty or so. The postmarks are from all over the world. This is unreal.” Running her finger over a line of odd signed stamps, Susan adds, “Listen to this one.
“‘You don't need to know my name but every single one of you knows who I am, and I think you are all fucking nuts. Someday you will pay for this, and I hope you get this letter so you know that someone who lives near you hates your guts. My now ex-girlfriend is out there looking for you, and if you find her you can have her.'
“Hey,” shouts Susan as she drops one letter into the pile and picks up another, like she's rummaging in a bingo cage, “I guess my husband has turned up. I had no idea he was still living in this county. Oh wait, listen to this one. This will make you all jump up and down.
“‘To the women who are walking: My father doesn't know I am writing this but I was wondering when you get done if you could help me. I am only in eighth grade but my father, who is very conservative, says he won't let me go to college because all the students take drugs and have crazy sex. He wants me to go to this Bible school in Waukesha and be a missionary, and I have straight A's and want to be a doctor. If you could do anything to help me, because my mother does whatever he says, I would really appreciate it. My name is Amanda Brocklet and my phone number is 980-648-9543.'”
“Sounds like a new client to me,” says Sandy.
“I had no idea so many people would be thinking about us like this,” concludes Alice, as she fingers some of the letters and tries to read without her glasses.
“I tried to tell you this would happen,” says Chris. “People love this kind of shit, and it's spring and we had a long winter, and no matter what the rest of the world says there are still a lot of pissed off, unhappy women out there.”
The women stretch out and marvel at what a fine storm they have whirled up. Susan holds the last letter in her hand for a long time, until Janice sees that she is crying. “What's wrong, Susan?”
She wipes tears from her nose with her fingertips, and then shares the letter:
“‘Dear Friends—It is never easy to do something different. I know that what you are doing took a lot of courage, and you need to know that there are many, many of us out here who understand perfectly what you are doing and why you are doing it. I am a thirty-nine-year-old woman who is dying of cancer. Every day that I am alive and am able to touch the fingers of my little son, look into the eyes of my husband, and watch the beautiful trees outside of my window, every day is a gift to me. Now you are a gift to me also. I think of you all day out there walking, talking, sharing secrets and working through your troubles. I am encouraged by your courage. Part of my heart is out there with you, and if you could, would you please say a prayer for me as I say a prayer for you each morning. Love, Your Friend, Patty Gulinsky—Room 45—Mercy Medical Center.'”
There is a moment of silence as Susan sets the letter down in her lap gently, as if it may break in half if she makes a sudden movement. Alice waits for a few seconds and then rises up and extends her hands out from her sides. The women look up at her, and then they all get up and join hands.
The women form a perfect, unbroken circle. Above them the sky has cleared, there is only one cloud, and it is drifting away in the high fast-moving spring air. The tablecloth is littered with half-eaten sandwiches and letters, twisted and placed right where the women have dropped them.
“Dear Lord,” Alice whispers with her head bowed and her eyes closed. “Please give our friend Patty the strength to know that she is not alone. Guide her through her days of pain, gently whisper in her ear when she thinks she can no longer go on, let her know that every minute, every second, she is in our hearts and she is walking here with us. Lord, please do not let Patty suffer, please help her to let go when the time comes. Please let her know that her son will be loved, and that you will be waiting for her. Thank you too, Lord, for blessing us with the gifts of friendship and love as we walk and talk and share. Thank you for lifting our sorrows and lightening our load. Thank you for keeping us safe, and for showing us that we are not alone. Stay with us, Lord, and please, stay with Patty.”
When she finishes, Alice slips Patty's letter into the front of her jacket and gently gathers up the rest of the notes and places them inside the paper bag.
“That's the shits,” says Chris, bending to stuff the rest of the food under the plastic. “That was really nice, Alice, your beautiful prayer. Thank you.”
The sun shifts a few inches higher as everyone moves to sip a drink, finish a sandwich, or pick up the rest of lunch, though no one is very hungry now. The women can hear an occasional car beyond the trees; and that sound, the rushing and movement, makes them all think of the world that is still waiting for them.
“Sometimes,” begins Susan, “I think about never going back, about walking to some clinic and taking care of my situation, and then I see myself walking and walking and never stopping. I guess I'm a little bit scared of ending up like Patty or falling back into the same rut where I've been for so many years.”
“Oh Susan,” Gail says, moving to stand in front of her. “I think going back is going to be great. You won't ever really want to go back and be the same way you were before this. I just think you aren't ready to go back yet. We are still walking, you know.”
“It's just that when I think of everything we have all done and been through, it makes me tired. Then I think of all those women, like the ones who wrote these notes, can you even believe that? All those women who are watching us and looking to us for inspiration.”
Sandy stands up, puts her hands on her hips, sways a bit, dipping her head into the wind so the gray ends of her hair whip around her face like lightning bolts.
“This is how I see it. First of all, we are out here for ourselves. We all know each other well enough to know that we all had something or someone to walk away from, or to step over. You can't take that away from us. This is like one very large moving therapy session. We all know we can't keep walking forever, we can't stay wrapped up in each other's arms like this the rest of our lives. We are all too smart to really want to do that, even you, Susan. We're also having one hell of a lot of fun. We're together, we love each other, and if someone like Patty or that little girl can find hope in our personal choice to walk, that's just a bonus. But it's not a responsibility.”