See You Sometime? Or Not

Facing up to friendship flushed

May 2018

I’d been in the writers’ workshop two years before Marlene joined. She gushed that my style was the love child of Nora Ephron and Dorothy Parker (for which remark I paid by check in advance). Marlene devoured dozens of my pieces online; she accomplished two years of catch-up in two weeks (she kindly offered a volume discount).

Last spring, summer, and fall Marlene and I walk the track together for an hour every Monday after writing class and meet up midweek for the same — after a delectable lunch, which we alternated hosting. Whenever temps topped 75, we’d walk instead around Lake Quannapowitt in Wakefield — (pre)treating ourselves to ice cream — so long as the wind had wound itself down and out for the day.

I hadn’t seen Marlene all winter, so I’d been thinking about calling her now that walking weather is — at long last — upon us …

The last time Marlene and I walked was on a mild day in early December, right after my daughter, Lauren, had suffered an especially nasty relapse of MS. She’d finally gone to a doctor, who’d sent her for an MRI, the results of which were pending as Marlene and I were walking.

Marlene — who’d often shared concerns about her daughter’s health — echoed in empathy my hope that Lauren’s prognosis wouldn’t be as bad as feared.

Turns out it was worse, as Lauren learned two days later. I looked forward to indulging in Marlene’s compassion the following Monday afternoon.

Marlene couldn’t stay after class that day. Ditto the following Monday. Besides, she said, it was too cold to be out walking. The Monday after that I read aloud to the group the piece I’d written about my daughter’s six-year struggle with MS. Marlene was not present.

I called Marlene on Tuesday, leaving voicemail, by way of a friendly check-up. On Thursday, I phoned again, asking her to let me know if she was all right. By then, I was starting to get worried; Marlene lived alone and for all I knew could be lying at the bottom of her staircase, undiscovered for days.

A few hours later, I decided to walk the two miles to Marlene’s house. If her car wasn’t there, I’d leave a note in the mail box. If her car was there, I’d ring the bell; if she didn’t answer…?

I don’t know what I’d have done; Marlene did come to the door, said she’d been about to call me, had just arrived home. She’d been away for a couple of days; that was all. Marlene seemed a bit harried by my intrusion; having just returned from her trip she likely had some catch-up chores to attend to.

I stepped off the stoop, sharing in parting my dire imaginings on her behalf. I chuckled awkwardly, partly from relief that she was fine, more so to cover how silly my fears felt in retrospect. Especially so given that my attempt at light humor fell with a dull thud as Marlene tightly thanked me for my concern.

I backpedaled a bit, assured Marlene I was just joking, had just figured that since I was passing by anyway, was heading to the track, since it was such a nice day for a walk ….

Marlene briskly waved away the brisk breeze that waved the WELCOME flag above her railing. With a skeptical smile, she shook her head, and said: “Nice day for a walk! … seriously?”

… As I was saying … I’d been thinking about calling Marlene now that walking weather has truly arrived. Last we spoke — on that “nice day” in December that I stopped by her house — the temperature was, after all,45 degrees, tops. Warm relative to that winter week, yes, but not enough to put the spring into a reluctant walker’s step.

Marlene always said she was grateful for my company; she knew she should get exercise but lacked the motivation to get moving on her own. Marlene had long since departed our moribund Monday writers’ workshop, so the weekly opportunity no longer presented itself. Perhaps, on this cusp of May, it was time for a friendly push.

I’d intended to phone Marlene tomorrow morning, but my plan was preempted by our fortuitous meeting this afternoon. I was at the town’s annual art show, browsing the exhibit booths, when I spied the tell-tale shiny black bob.

Marlene started as I gently touched her arm. She acknowledged my greeting with a rote nod, and hurriedly parried my innocuous queries as her eyes darted toward the door. On her way to which, she called after me: Hate to have to cut you short, but… But…? … Nothing.

Funny, I’d thought — for ten months I thought! — that Marlene and I were friends. Not funny — I should rather say — after all, I never find it funny when the joke’s on me.

How could I have unwittingly been playing at friendship all these months? Ten months. There were no insipid smiley-faced flags flying above us all those miles we walked. We didn’t indulge aimlessly in inoffensive inanities; we spoke of our lives, our kids, our ex-men; we reveled in the Big Three certified-unsafe subjects — Religion, Politics, Sex.

We supported each other reciprocally; neither of us was needy; we had plenty of other friends; we had interests and beliefs both in common, and not. In sum, all the ingredients for a healthful friendship were present in the proper proportions. The recipe was failsafe; the directions were duly followed; every Monday, for ten months, we cooked up a new batch of which we happily partook.

So what went awry? I am at a loss to explain what happened. After all, nothing happened! There had not been even a minor breach between us.

Yet, the fact remains that Marlene didn’t even bother to muster minor pleasantries at our meeting, much less attempt to make plans — or even attempt the pretense of making plans. Marlene left me — abruptly — with nothing but a But…a But… …Nothing.

September 2018

There is — has been for months — road reconstruction in front of the soon-to-be-doomed Dairy Delight. Since it suffered the same all last season I was pleasantly surprised to see it still in business, albeit barely. Sales have been decimated on account of would-be customers being unable to pull up to the window.

I felt it incumbent upon me to do my part to prolong its life — especially when I saw featured a new flavor: ‘smores, my favorite. I got a scoop sandwiched between chocolate saucers; inexplicably, the same amount served in a “kiddie” cup or cone would cost $1.35 more.

As it is, they offer a cup to contain the sandwich and a spoon besides; I gratefully accepted both and a bag to carry it all, which I topped off with napkins to mop up. I figured there might be a bit of a mess by the time I got out of jack-hammer range to indulge.

As before, I headed diagonally across to Leonard Street, a steep-but-worth-it walk to Waitt’s Mount, a hidden-to-me treasure for my first 30 years in town.

I was introduced to Waitt’s Mount four years ago by a life-long resident who’d first happened upon it at age 52. Last spring, I brought Marlene there; we walked 10 times around its quarter-mile loop.

Though thereafter our treks got back on track — its level sponginess being easier on the feet — Marlene was thrilled to have found Waitt’s Mount. She went there on her own a week later, but felt a bit uneasy in its isolation and was reluctant to return.

Segue to my surprise on encountering her there this afternoon.

It was Tom I saw first, his face three-quarters in my favor. Like Marlene, Tom — a delightful man — was an erstwhile member of the Monday morning writers’ group. I greeted him warmly and prepared to send a smile toward his companion — wife? — who, I expected, would be turning her head toward the sound of an unfamiliar voice.

Peeking in anticipation, I came face-to-back with a black bob. Marlene…? Marlene!

Upon my exclamation, Marlene deigned to flash half a profile and to acknowledge the coincidence of having run into both Tom and me on this fine summer day.

I mentioned that the moribund writers’ group had shown recent signs of recovery with the resurrection of four long-departed.

Disregarding my uplifting news, Marlene murmured: So sad it is that the group has faded away.

Marlene nodded in reply to my good-bye as I walked toward the trash can to deposit my marshmallow-ed napkins. I’d planned to walk the loop a dozen times to “work off” my treat — ha! — so I proceeded on the path.

As I completed the circle, coming upon the pair still on their bench, this time it was Marlene’s face in my — sun-blinded — view. I raised a hand weakly as I awkwardly muttered my second — and final — goodbye.

Perhaps Marlene responded by word or gesture I could not discern. In any event, wanting to avoid further awkwardness, even before rounding the bend I’d resolved to resume my meandering elsewhere.

… In Pine Banks Park, which abuts Forestdale Cemetery — to where I proceeded; under the circumstances its silent surrounds seemed apropos.

Channeling Marlene …

I can’t be bothered.

I liked Liz at first. For six months, I liked her. I especially liked her writing; I spent two days reading two years’ worth of her work in order to catch up; Liz had been prolific before I joined the writers’ group. I always reread the pieces Liz shared with the class in order to properly appreciate the wordplay.

I found her work variously amusing and thought-provoking — until six months in, when I was no longer amused and was “provoked” in its sense of “annoyed.”

Liz devolved into junior-high-style silly stuff, then an insipid romantic story that was convoluted and condescending. She segued to spewing self-absorbed drivel bemoaning how “slow” she runs — horrors! — pacing over 8-minutes per mile. Seriously?! Most in our class of seniors are using walkers or canes.

Liz and I used to walk the track for an hour or so after class and meet up midweek as well. We never seemed to run out of things to talk about; we had enough in common and enough otherwise to keep things interesting. We held the same basic values and similar political views — or so I thought.

Until the day when Liz spoke in defense of Trump. She protested that criticisms of him as racist were uncalled for. Turns out her remark was a set up for a flippant punch line: “Trump is color-blind — he degrades people indiscriminately across the spectrum.”

Point taken; still, I found it offensive. Trump is pure evil; to crack jokes even at his expense is abhorrent. Clearly, Liz has no commitment to fighting the good fight — she admits to wanting nothing to do with politics beyond casting her vote every four years.

I cannot abide her lack of outrage. Liz is no different from the rest of the apathetic public, i.e., 99.99 percent of the population. I treasure my precious particulars; I have no patience for, nor interest in, people in general.

I do admit that Liz was a good influence in that she got me in the habit of walking twice a week. I’d intended to keep it up on my own, but then came winter. Spring was a cold-water washout.

Now summer is upon us all of a sudden; it’s like 90-degrees outside. Forget about walking in this heat — I can’t be bothered.

I refrain from posting portrayals of family and friends unless the piece is devoid of sensitive details and flattering to my subjects or is heavily disguised as fiction, lest one should chance upon it while browsing my portfolio.

As for this tale of my erstwhile best fan, my rule, alas, is moot.

I classified this piece as fiction on account of my conjuring the ghost of Marlene.