No Picnic
Bruce Genaro
I sit behind the wheel of the convertible, silent, focusing on my driving while Sarah plays with the radio knob. Pop, rock, news, classical. Finally she lands on a popular station that plays songs from the 50’s and 60’s. Buddy Holly and the Crickets are singing “That’ll be the day” and Sarah cranks it up full volume, singing along, her bare feet up on the dash board, her hands slapping her knees in rhythm. Sarah’s usually soft voice is belting out “Yeah that’ll be the day-ay-ay when I die”. I glance sideways at her with a quizzical (O.K., snide) look, hoping she doesn’t see it but she does.
“Don’t give me that look” she says.
“What look?” I reply, “and don’t give me that attitude!”
“That condescending look and I’m not giving you attitude” she says as she pulls a magazine from her satchel on the floor and starts flipping through it in that way that she has to let me know that she is irritated but is not about to discuss it. Sarah is all too quick to give the silent treatment, to shut down and pull a Laura Petrie “Well if you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to tell you!” So of course I have to drag it out of her which is exactly what she wants. “It wasn’t a condescending look it was a quizzical look”. I say this in a desperate attempt to lessen the fury I know is brewing behind her pale green eyes. Eyes that seem so soft and inviting that I am usually taken by surprise when she throws one of her (all too frequent these days) tantrums. “I was just surprised that on this beautiful sunny day as we’re headed to the park for a leisurely picnic lunch, you chose Holly over Mahler”.
“Depth and range, that’s what you lack Mitch, depth and range”. Ouch! We drive for the next ten minutes in silence, because rather than lower the volume or concede and change to a classical station, she turns the radio off with a dramatic flick of the wrist. She sits there quietly, nervously playing with a gold crucifix that hangs from a chain around her neck. Her other hand and her mouth are actively involved in some enterprise that involves the ends of her hair and a rhythmic movement of her head.
My silence isn’t sulking, just thinking. I had planned this picnic in the park to break off our engagement, something I had been trying to do for weeks. It would have been easier if we were not in the throes of making arrangements; if the wedding weren’t just a couple of months away. With everything that was going on, I could never find just the right moment. Or if I found the right moment I couldn’t find the courage. The idea of being in the country I thought, some classical music playing, a basket of gourmet food, the peaceful serenity of the lake, would somehow civilize the whole thing. We could discuss it like mature, rational adults, slicing up Brie and pate instead of each other. And here she was turning into a teenager on me, and turning into a hostile, temperamental one at that. Lately her fuse had gone from short to none. An only child raised by a devout Catholic mother and an authoritarian father, she learned to steam roll her way through life, knowing exactly when to employ guilt and when to use intimidation to get exactly what she wanted. She often lacked the ability to see both sides of an issue. But, as any good Army Reserve sergeant will tell you, it’s the skirmishes that make all the training worth while. I may not have depth and range but I know a little about detente. I gently take her hand in mine. “I’m sorry” I say, as I press her palm to my lips. She leans over and kisses me on the cheek. “Me too”. We make it to the park without further incident.
The blades of clean green grass tickle my toes as I stroll down to the waters edge. I kneel down, my eyes scanning the few rocks on the all but barren shoreline to find the smoothest, flattest one for skipping. I find one that is close to perfect. A small nib on one corner might affect the balance of weight slightly, but otherwise it’s ideal. I stand up straight, draw back my arm as far as possible, bend my knees a bit, hand just above the shoulder, swing it forward and with a snap of the wrist, the small stone leaves my palm and goes sailing across the water. Nine, ten, eleven. Eleven circles in the water, each getting larger, each overlapping the other, like wet sound waves, before it disappears beneath the surface.
I stroll back to the blanket where Sarah is sitting, sipping white wine from a plastic tumbler. She looks so lovely and relaxed in the afternoon sun. She is wearing an outfit similar to the one she had on the first day we met and for a moment I falter and question if I’m doing the right thing. “What talent!” She giggles as I approach. “I’d pour you some wine, but you’re obviously in training.” I sit down on the blanket and pour my own glass of Chardonnay from the half empty bottle. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss the benefits of rock skimming my dear. It takes great skill and concentration. You have to find just the right projectile. Then one has to assess the perfect height to throw from based on the weight of the stone. And then there’s the problem of currents and wind factor to take into consideration. All in all, not quite as simple or mundane as one might think.” “And this little “sport” she says sarcastically (making little quotation marks with the first two fingers of each hand) gives you some sense of satisfaction? Of accomplishment?”
“Dear Sarah, I thought you of all people with your yoga classes and your Buddhist friends would see that it is not a sport at all but rather a form of meditation”.
“So did your mother tell you about her ideas for the reception” she says, changing the subject to our impending wedding in a successful attempt to annoy me. “Now there is a person who should learn how to meditate” I say, tearing off a piece of a baguette and smearing it with Brie. “I think the band she’s chosen is going to be perfect”, Sarah continues brightly. How does she do that? Go on with her own agenda, as if my part of the conversation makes no difference. I pinch my arm in a mocking fashion but the inference is lost on her. At times having a conversation with Sarah is like talking to one of those stuffed children’s’ toys with the prerecorded messages where you’re forced into answering a set series of questions. This does however jar me back to reality and makes me realize that I am just stalling the inevitable.
I want to tell her how I feel but I always get sidetracked. I had meant to tell my mother the truth as well, to prevent her from making all of those unnecessary arrangements, but they seem to be made from the same mold, barreling through life like a tornado, pulling up trees, houses and trailer parks, leaving in their wake destruction while they pick up force and speed. It has always amazed me how they can be so oblivious to their surroundings, to other peoples’ feelings. Women and mothers were supposed to be nurturing and comforting. Is it years of oppression and feminism that has caused this shift in all women or do I just subconsciously attract and encourage this type of aggression? Granted, I like a challenge as much as the next fellow, but I don’t like it all the time. I appreciate, in fact like strong women, but not one’s who feel they have to prove their strength. I get enough of that crap in the reserves and on poker nights with my old frat brothers. I look across the blanket at Sarah and wonder how someone so pretty, feminine and kind can also be so castrating and self absorbed.
It’s knowing where to start that’s the problem. What do I say? I’ve something to tell you? We need to talk? There’s something we need to discuss! It’s silly really, to fret about it I mean. No matter how it’s approached the end result will be the same. I like to think that I’m worried about hurting her feelings, which I am, but the real reason for the hesitation is that I want everybody to like me. I spent my formative years silently apologizing to people for my mother’s aggressive and often combative ways and have never quite freed myself from the role of diplomat. Suddenly I blurt out (mumble really as I still have a mouth full of bread and cheese) “Why do you want to marry me?” I don’t know why I ask this. Perhaps I hope she won’t have a good reason and I can suggest that maybe we should postpone the wedding for a few months till she’s sure this is what she really wants. Instead, she answers without hesitation “Because I love you silly!” And then she makes the mistake of asking me why I want to marry her. “I don’t” I say with little or no emotion in my voice. I saw an opening and I took it. Silence. I want to explain, to soften the blow, to keep talking, rationalizing, as if that might soften a bad reaction. But having said it, I become mute while waiting for the counter-attack. She brings the glass to her lips and takes a sip of wine while she tries to calculate if I’m joking or not. She puts the wine glass down on the blanket, folds her hands and places them in her lap. She looks me straight in the eyes and says, also with little or no emotion, “You’re not kidding are you?”
“I wish I were.”
“Is there someone else?”
“No.”
“Is it that you don’t love me or that you’re just don’t want to get married?”
“I don’t know. I mean I know that I don’t want to get married, but I don’t know if I love you. I know I did, I just don’t know if I do.”
She takes another sip of wine before saying, “So where does that leave us?”
“I don’t know really. I just know that if we went ahead with this wedding we’d be making a terrible mistake. I’m not afraid of commitment Sarah, I’m just afraid of making a mistake, of hurting you.”
“So you’d rather hurt me now than later. That’s a cop out Mitch. You should know by now that I can handle anything except being patronized”.
I shake my head and break into a nervous smile. “Look, this is no picnic for me either, if you’ll pardon the pun”.
She doesn’t. She glares at me. “O.K. Mitch, no bullshit. What’s the real reason you don’t want to get married?”
“It’s not as simple as that. I didn’t wake up one morning with a list of reasons why we shouldn’t get married. There’s no definitive answer. It just feels wrong.”
“And how long have you felt this way? Maybe it’s just cold feet. Perhaps we should talk to a counselor.”
“I’m not against doing that, but I don’t think that’s the answer. You’ve changed Sarah. We’ve both changed. But right after we got engaged you seemed to became another person. Maybe it’s the time you’ve spent with my mother making all the arrangements. Maybe it’s parts of your personality I overlooked until I thought of making a life-long commitment to you. And maybe I’m just the spoiled brat that that Gestapo of a mother always said I was. It’s not anyone’s fault. I’ve changed too. What ever it is it just isn’t right between us anymore.”
Sarah looks at me for a moment, her eyes glazed over as if there’s no thought behind them, then turns her head and looks off across the lake. We are not alone in this park but it feels as if we are. Sarah’s eyes seem to linger on a family of four, a father and his son playing Frisbee, a Golden Retriever jumping up to intercept. She watches them as if in their solidarity they have all of the answers to life. I fix my gaze on a group of six playing volleyball, marveling at the way they volley and serve, in-tune with each others movements, as if each can read their team-mates minds. They are independent and yet a team. Watching them rotate and set up a serve, it’s clear that they have the advantage of playing a game that has rules, roles and boundaries. If only life were that simple. We sit there like this in silence for a few minutes that feels like a few hours until she says, definitively, “Take me home!” “We haven’t really discussed this yet” I counter, hoping to soften the blow I feel is yet to come. Sarah gets up onto her knees and starts busying herself packing up the picnic basket. She looks at me and makes a conscious effort to keep her bottom lip from quivering. “I’ve heard all I care to hear. Take me home.”
Sarah walks back to the car alone leaving me to gather the remains of the picnic and my life. When I reach the car, she is sitting in the passengers seat, arms crossed over her chest so tightly I’m afraid she’s going to cut off her circulation. Her shoulder is butted up against the door and she’s looking straight ahead through the windshield, her eyes glazed over as if she’s in some drug induced trance. I put the basket in the trunk and take my place in the driver’s seat. I sit there for a moment, just quietly looking at her. When I realize that she’s invested too much in her anger to talk to me, I start the car and begin backing out of the parking lot. Her silent treatment makes me furious. To relieve some of my own tension I press the gas pedal to the floor. Tires screeching, dust flying everywhere, I just miss backing into someone’s brand new Range Rover. When I slam on the brakes the car stalls and it takes three tries before I get it going again.
Out on the open road, I try one more time to come to some sort of resolution. I fear if I drop her off at her apartment it will be weeks before she answers the phone or consents to talk to me. “Sarah, at the risk of having you bite my head off, these tantrums you throw and this refusal to communicate when your angry is one of the reasons I think we should call off the wedding. What kind of marriage would we have if we couldn’t talk about things”. Suddenly she starts to cry. Not sniffling and wet eyes, but convulsive sobbing. Her body is shaking, tears are streaming down her face and a wail is coming from somewhere deep inside of her. I pull the car off onto the shoulder, turn off the ignition and wrap my arms around her. I am surprised and glad that she doesn’t resist. Neither of us say anything. The odd thing is that I know that this has little or nothing to do with what just happened. The kind of emotion she is releasing is something that has been stored up for years if not lifetimes. We are all just walking around stumbling through life waiting for something to trigger us so that we can let go and release the pain that has been built up by horrible parents, bad luck or past lives and lots of negative karma.
She composes herself just long enough to say “I don’t blame you. I can’t even stand to be around me these days. I feel so out of control. Works got me crazy, I’m not going to make partner this year, I’m ready to strangle your mother and yesterday I found a small lump in my breast. And now you tell me something I’ve been suspecting if not fearing for months.” I give her this panicked look when she mentions the lump thing, but she just puts up her hand, palm straight up and shakes her head as if to say it’s nothing and even if it is she can handle it. Surprisingly, she continues. “I feel like I haven’t stopped moving forward since I was six. Wanting to please my father and afraid of ending up like my mother living in his shadow. At some point, I just started going after the things I thought I was supposed to want, never stopping to consider if I really wanted them. I envy your courage to do what you did today. I know it was hard. That’s one of the things I love about you. You know what you want and you arrange your life accordingly. The sad thing for me is, and don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m more afraid of failing at something than I am of losing you. I’ve had doubts about what we were doing, but I never stopped to look at it on an emotional level.” She buries her head in my chest as the tears continue to flow. I kiss the top of her head and stroke her long blond hair.
I am amazed and touched that she has finally let me see this vulnerable side to her. This is unfamiliar territory for me and I fight against saying such trite things as “There, there” and “Everything will be fine.” I am cautious against falsely reassuring her. Cars that pass us on the freeway are slowing down to get a better look at what’s going on in the blue Mustang on the side of the road. The heads of passengers turn to watch us, their little faces getting smaller and smaller as they carry their speculation about what they’ve just seen into the future. They watch because they are glad it’s not them and yet fearful that whatever dreadful fate has befallen us might be waiting for them around the next corner. The difference between “us” and “them” is always closer than we realize. We all spend so much of our time trying to avoid pain that in the process we don’t notice that we also stop feeling pleasure. Sarah wipes her eyes dry, straightens up in her seat and says that she’s O.K., that I should take her home. There is a calmness about her and a softness that’s been absent for months As I put the car into gear and pull back out into traffic, I glance over to make sure her seatbelt is fastened. She sees me do this, gives me a faint smile, rests her head on my shoulder and I think “now this is someone I could fall in love with.”
