Getting new mexico, p.24
Getting New Mexico, page 24
After spending their wedding night in Nambé, the Schuylers loaded Bella and her three pups, dog care equipment, and luggage into the pickup on Monday and headed west. They reached their lodging five days later after visiting the Grand Canyon, Santa Barbara, and Pismo Beach. An internet search turned up a Big Sur motel with kenneling facilities to meet their needs.
Both Anita and Schuyler were worn out by the time they ate dinner and settled into the rooms they’d occupy for a week. The fireplace with logs stacked next to it was a welcome sight. They hadn’t stopped to think that the sunny California coast would be cold and windy in early December. They unpacked their clothes, checked on the dogs one last time, and, exhausted, fell into bed.
Schuyler lay there, thinking, unable to sleep despite his fatigue. There was something he needed to do, must do, and it made no sense to postpone doing it.
Careful not to waken Anita, he slipped out of bed, pulled on a sweatshirt, retrieved his Diary, and an envelope he had picked up from the motel reception desk, and tiptoed out of the bedroom. In the sitting room area, he sat down on a couch with a view of the shoreline and ocean. It was too dark to see the waves, but he could distinguish the dull roar of the surf and its accompanying crash onto the rocky beach. Turning on a small lamp, assured the light wouldn’t disturb Anita, he flipped the pages of the diary until he found a blank one, then started writing. When he finished the entry he carefully tore the pages from the diary. Wow. He’d often threatened to remove incriminating pages, but the diary was so sacrosanct he’d never actually done that. First time for everything. He folded the pages into the envelope, sealed it, addressed it, turned off the lamp, and returned to bed.
Clementine and Stan Atwater stayed on in Santa Fe for a few days after the wedding, visiting with Yuthi and Uttam and Hugh Leigh and reliving highlights of the festivities. Stan, who viewed himself as a rugged individualist, was enthralled with the Southwest. He bought a four-hundred-dollar pair of Tony Lama boots and was reluctant to return to Ohio. Once back home, he asked Clementine if she’d like to sell the Akron mansion, buy a spread near Santa Fe, and raise some cattle. They weren’t that old, he argued, and it was never too late to start over.
“What do you think, dear?”
“Sorry, love! Give me a moment.” Clementine had received a letter postmarked Monterey, California. The embossed return address on the envelope stated, “Big Sur Lodge.”
“How odd. I think this is from Aaron.” She slit open the envelope and saw, revealed, the strangest missive she’d ever received.
“Oh!” With a gasp, she collapsed onto the silk-upholstered sofa and began to read.
Dear Diary,
I guess the best way to start is to tell you how around the beginning of autumn, maybe it was the middle of September, not sure about that, I started having an epiphany. Anyway, that’s what I call it. Well, no—I take that back. Not the epiphany, but the timing. Let’s go back to June 23rd. I’d been in love with Anita Chatterjee from the very first moment I saw her, but on June 23rd I thought everything was hopeless between us because when I asked her for a date, she said no. You know from other things I’ve written, how down and frustrated I was, thinking I’d never have the chance to tell her what was in my heart.
Then, about three months later everything was turned around and upside down. That was when Anita first asked me to have dinner with her family and we started dating. It turns out she was as much in love with me, as I was with her. This I found hard to believe then and, at times, often, really, still do.
Looking back, I remember how nervous I felt, how worried about an episode of IBS when I went to their home for dinner. Hugh Leigh was also there. I didn’t say a lot that night, wasn’t the most voluble guest, but there was a lot going through my mind. Up till then I’d thought Leigh was a crusty old fart. Of course, he was far from finished mourning Uncle Harry, and I knew that. But while we ate I watched him watching me and I could see his opinion of me was changing for the better. Not that he said so. I knew he was glad I was there, part of the company, and having dinner with them.
Diary, you can’t imagine how much I enjoyed that evening. It made me wonder if I had ever enjoyed anything ever before in my life. It left me wondering if, at last, all the countless chips had fallen off my shoulder. It hit me in the face, and I finally understood that whatever misfortune I’d suffered, whatever ill luck came my way, was always the result of my poor choices. I thought to myself, Hallelujah.
Is it in the bible that someone says the scales fell from their eyes? I don’t know what kind of scales those are, but I know what it feels like to have them gone. My perspective changed. I didn’t feel angry or humiliated because I’d been such a moron as to bring a dog to Mrs. Chatterjee as a hostess gift. I laughed, and I realized how much better off I’d have been if I’d laughed more often. Laughed with Clementine, instead of laughing at her.
This is almost tragic but, you know, I don’t think I’ve ever had a good laugh with my mother and I know she has an outrageous, beyond good sense of humor. My loss. Instead of enjoying her for what she is, absolutely fantastic, I kept taking advantage of her and acting like an adolescent, making up excuses for doing so. A rotter, in her terms.
I was so comfortable with those people sitting around the table. Yeah, I didn’t say much, and that was probably all to the good, but I was happy to be with them. I was enjoying myself. I was having fun, not to mention the fact that I was sitting next to Anita.
In some ways it was better to be a listener. Here was a group of people, people my mother knew, but I hadn’t known they knew each other. They valued and respected my mother. I couldn’t pat myself on the back and say I’d done the same.
I felt pulled apart. Sad. I could have belonged to this group a lot earlier on if I’d lived my life in a different way. In a better way. And if I’d chosen differently I would have seen my mother as the Chatterjee family and Hugh Leigh saw her. As an incredible woman who got stuck with a son who was almost worthless. I know she never stopped loving me and trying to do her best by me. If only I had done the same for her, and better understood her relationship with my father. How she protected me as a child.
I made myself my own victim. What moron does that, and chooses to hurt himself, to shut out all those who really love him?
My mother gave me the greatest gift in the world when she gave me one more chance, sent me to Santa Fe and forced me to work at Sam’s Club. She planned the whole thing out, down to the last detail, even knowing I’d meet Tom Jannssen, who knew her, and that she could depend on Tom to take me under his wing. She knew when I walked up those steps to the Human Resources Office that I’d fall in love with Anita.
How could I help myself? She gave me Anita.
I phoned my mother on October 31st, about a month before our wedding, to wish her a happy Halloween. Her favorite holiday. She started talking at once about Winston’s latest communication, his views on every possible subject under the sun. Something was triggered in me as I listened to her.
You see, my mother is a most fortunate woman. Right then, I yearned to believe in something—anything at all—with the same passion, fervor, and faith she offered to her god. Winston. It was a real ah-hah moment. I’d always wondered what that term meant, and now I understand. If I was speaking to her right now, I’d say thank you and I’d say I love you, Mom. Very much. I always have.
December 1, 2018
Clementine was still seated on the sofa lost in thought, her lips parted as if she was about to say something. There she sat, bolt upright, staring straight ahead, her eyes glazed over and unblinking. She still held the diary pages in her hand. Her form was so rigid Stan wondered if she was having a seizure but he wasn’t sure what a seizure looked like. As far as he could recall, there was nothing of the sort in her medical history, but you never know. At their age it could happen.
She slowly sagged off the sofa and with a soft thud landed on her knees. Reverently placing the pages from Aaron’s diary on the carpet in front of her and smoothing them out as if they were a map to hidden treasure or celestial riches, she clasped her hands together.
“What is it, darling?” Atwater was agitated. “Tell me. Please tell me.”
“Stan, love, hold me for a moment,” Clementine whispered. “My every prayer has been answered. If only you knew how much—oh, if only Harry was here to share this moment with us. I’m so grateful for you, Stan!”
Atwater knelt beside her and clasped her clasped hands in his.
“I knew neither of them would fail us. Neither Aaron nor Churchill. I knew Aaron wasn’t a lost cause. That wasn’t even possible. Just hold me, and let us give thanks to Winston!”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo: Susan Levin
Rhenna St. Clair, a Portland, Oregon, native, arrived in New Mexico in 1992. Fascinated by the beauty of the land and its history, the archaeological sites and the mix of cultures, she can’t imagine living anywhere else. A licensed acupuncturist and practitioner of Chinese medicine, St. Clair has traveled in China as well as in India and other parts of Asia. She now practices Chinese medicine and acupuncture in northern New Mexico. Her poetry has been published in Perspective(s) Magazine, the literary journal of San Juan College. Getting New Mexico is her first book.
Rhenna St. Clair, Getting New Mexico
