I decided to try something different this time. I wanted to experiment with turning short stories I wrote into audio, and this is the first of several, I hope. The hard part for me is always asking other people to do something for me, like sitting for an interview, or in this case reading the story out loud into a recorder.
As I explain in a conversation with Flora after the story, I met Anne McQuary virtually in 2007 when we were both writing blogs, largely about our thoughts, feelings, fears, joys, frustrations, and laugh out loud moments of parenting. While I’ve never met in what I happily still think of as the real, physical world, we were blogger friends and then Facebook friends, and when I thought of someone to read my story, she immediately came to mind. I asked her, and amazingly, she said yes. And she killed it! She didn’t just read it, she performed it, and the result still chokes me up after dozens of readings and listenings. I couldn’t have asked for better. Thank you Anne! If ever I can return the kindness, let me know, though I’m not sure I’ll live up to the standard you set.
The story itself is a meditation on returning to dating later in life after divorce. I’ll resist all the things I want to say about it and let you have your own experience with it.
Thanks also to Flora, for getting on the mic with me and always encouraging me to be myself, try new things, and to commit the time to get it finished.
Our theme song is “Start Again” by Monk Turner + Fascinoma. I made the outro music on Soundation. The three other songs came from https://audiio.com/ and include “Building a Treehouse (Instrumental)” by As Tall As Pine; “Early Hours (Instrumental)” by Andy D. Park; and “Giving It All (Instrumental)” by Marshall Usinger.
Here’s the story:
“And The River Churns Opaquely” by Rod Haden
Madelina shifted her weight to the right. Her entire left leg, from her buttock all the way down into her calf, was dead. Well, not dead. She imagined dead doesn’t hurt. Sitting on the ground was not something people her age were meant to do. She could feel the blood returning, and it felt both better and worse at the same time. If she got up now, she would shamble and stagger, but if she waited much longer, she‘d have to ask him for help to make it upright at all. Dating was not something people her age were meant to do either.
“Let’s walk down to the bridge,” she said, stealing a sideways glance at Franklin’s face. He was staring across the river, not quite smiling. His thoughts were far from here, she supposed. He turned then, and his eyes snapped into focus on hers. Now he grinned, and she blushed. She couldn’t say why. He looked so different just then. Not younger, really, just… something. She couldn’t name it.
“Perfect,” he said, holding her gaze a moment before she looked away. The water was quick. Its red-brown surface was opaque and stippled with rushing debris.
He rolled awkwardly to his hands and knees, grunting. He paused there, staring intently down at the space between his thumbs. “It’ll take me a second,” he said simply. “I’m not the man I used to be.” He gave a short laugh. She thought she heard something else. A fart, maybe. She wondered if she imagined it. “I suppose I never really was the man I used to be!” He laughed again and lumbered up to one knee, then onto his feet. If he had farted, he made no sign that he was aware of it.
Madelina wondered if she should roll as he had done. She wasn’t at all certain she could get herself up and keep her skirt down, gracefully, modestly. She tried to remember how she got down there in the first place. Maybe she could reverse the process. She wished she had suggested a different spot for a first date. She loved to read here, in the sun, before the divorce. Nothing felt like hers anymore. She had wanted it to be hers again.
“May I give you a hand, lovely?” he asked. He set his feet at shoulder width and bent his knees, as if preparing to lift a great weight. She wondered if she should be offended at the implication. He reached out to her.
“Lovely?” she thought, and took his hand. She rose almost effortlessly. “Oh!” she breathed, and blushed again. “You’re stronger than you look!” He chuckled, and she caught herself. “No, I mean… not that you…”
“Yeah, I guess I do all right, once I get a solid foundation under me. And you’re light as a feather. You make me feel quite strapping, actually.”
His large, brown eyes held her as firmly as his grip. His bald head shone wetly. She suddenly felt the humidity herself, and a flush of heat. She brushed the back of her skirt. It was damp. She hoped it wasn’t muddy. The flooding of the week before had receded, but the riverbank was still saturated. It was foolish of her to bring him here to sit in the grass in a bright yellow dress like she was 20.
She could hear his breath. His face was still bright with that nameless something. It seemed like she had seen that face before, that she recognized him from somewhere. He released her hand and turned toward the bridge. He bent his arm, and she threaded hers into it. It was comfortable. Their feet moved in easy synchronicity as they strolled slowly along the bank.
“I’m sorry,” she said, touching his elbow with the fingers of her free hand, “for bringing you here. I should’ve suggested a coffee shop or something. I haven’t really done this in a while, you know.”
“Regret nothing,” he said. He has, she thought, a reader’s sense of language. “It’s beautiful here.” He breathed in. She felt his chest expand. “It smells like a fresh start. Everything’s been scoured clean.” He turned his head toward her. “Was there much devastation?” he asked. “In the flood?”
“Some,” she said. “But the bridge held.” They were almost underneath it now. There was no traffic passing above. The bank was slick as it descended to the water. They stopped on the last patch of grass before the mud, looking down. The water hurried, thick and rough. At the edge, waterlogged branches and unrecognizable detritus snagged in a tangle.
“Look,” he said, and slipped free of her arm. “There’s something there.” He took a few steps forward, moving slowly, planting his feet deliberately on the treacherous surface, step by step. “What an odd shape it is.” He crept forward, each step intentional.
“Setting his foundation,” she thought. She stayed where she was.
“It’s a stone,” he said at last, stopping and turning back to her. “A headstone, I think. Let’s take a closer look.” He held out his hand to her, but she was too far to reach him. Emulating his technique, she stepped slowly, slowly, setting her feet, glad of her sensible shoes. At last their fingers touched. They gazed down at the stone. It was chipped and rough, like slate, and half buried in the mud. She wondered from where it had washed up. He gripped her hand then, firmly. She didn’t pull away.
Our baby, Hope
Lost before she lived
Loved fiercely and forever
June 3, 1973
He squeezed her hand, shifted it from his right hand to his left, and squeezed it again. He slipped his freed arm around her waist and held her like that. She pressed her thigh against his and felt his warmth through the damp fabric of her skirt. He was solid, rooted to the ground. He didn’t move. They stood like that for a long time, saying nothing.