ALGC PROJECTS

November 25, 2022

          A memory. Late at night. In a country distant from what was known. Outside the air is cooler than expected. Huddled around a white wrought-iron fence, exploring each other's mysteries. "Should we go to bed?" one asks. "Only if what we're doing right now is less important than sleep" is the answer. Nobody moves.

***

​

          Approaching the end of his life, a man shuffles slowly and methodically into his study. He opens a drawer and pulls out an unopened ream of cream-colored paper, laying it carefully next to a turquoise Olympia typewriter. He sits down and, confidently, sure of his purpose, starts to compose an eternity.

***

​

          A kettle begins to sing, piercing the still air of a quiet suburban home. The song is abruptly interrupted as the water is efficiently poured into two mugs painted with black polka dots. A tea bag - chamomile - is dropped in each, and then they are whisked off the counter and out onto the porch, where they are met with chilly November air and grateful hands. A late-middle-aged woman takes a seat next to her husband of thirty eight years on the dark green porch swing. She leans comfortably on his shoulder. He pulls a blanket over her legs, then kisses the top of her head.

          "It's a lovely sky today isn't it?" She asks. He turns his gaze across the lawn and up at the sun, pushing itself over the tips of Cyprus trees that dot the neighborhood.

          "Couldn't be better," he says absentmindedly.

          "How many more mornings like this have we've got left do you think? With the sky like it is and the lawn with new frost and the birds singing?"

          "What kind of talk is that? We've got all the time in the world, don't you worry."

          "I'm not worried bout nothing Sam. I'm not going anywhere. Just thinking is all."

          Another moment of tranquil silence follows, before she continues, "Do you remember that night at the school dance?"

          This was a ritual they performed frequently, each quiet morning was punctuated by Sam and Robin Dowels remembering the story of their lives together, every incident and episode in their romance carefully rehashed as to ensure nothing was forgotten.

          "Ohh yes," Sam chuckles, "I was so mortified by the thought of Jason Swanson asking you to dance that I figured the only logical thing to do was grab you by the hand and run as far away from there as possible."

          "I can see it clear as day, your face was pale as a sheet! I thought for certain you'd gone completely insane. Why, didn't we end up all the way past the Johnson's house?"

          He brushes his wispy hair aside and rubs his forehead, remembering, "We did indeed! I'm still embarrassed thinking of it, how scared I was. I said to you, 'Robin, please tell me you'll marry me or I think I'm going to spontaneously combust.'"

          "Good lord you were a mess, and I was so upset by the whole thing."

          Sam shakes his head, "I'll never fully recover from what you did next when you -"

          "Slapped you right across the face I did! And I'd do it again too! Somebody had to get your head out of your ass."

          "And then you grabbed me by the shoulders and said - "

          "Would you get over yourself already and just dance with me?" Robin imitates a snobbish, child-like tone.

          "Then you kissed me impatiently, grabbed my hand, and we started down the hill again."

          "I had to get a romantic dance one way or another, didn't I?"

          "You would've gotten one too, had you not gone and tripped on the way across the Williamson's driveway. I'd been practicing for weeks to take you out that night."

          "You shoulda caught me!"

          "I was in a state of utter bewilderment!" in a tone of mock defensiveness, "I couldn't've done much of anything."

          "Maybe so, but it wasn't very nice to just leave me sprawled on the lawn, then poor Mr. Murphy had to come out and throw me in his pickup, and drive me to the hospital!"

          "Mr. Murphy? It was the Williamson's house you fell at. They're driveway was always so messed up by the roots of that big tree they had. Didn't I say Williamson just a minute ago?"

          "Yes dear, you did, but don't you remember how Mr. and Mrs. Williamson always used to park in the back? It was Mr. Murphy who's pickup was parked in the front. He and Stephanie and the Williamsons must've been having dinner together that night or something."

          "But it was Mr. Williamson who answered the door when I rang, of that I'm sure. He must've been the one who picked you up, even if Mr. Murphy was the one who ended up driving you."

"Oh yes that must've been it," in a conciliatory tone, "Yes I think I remember that's how it happened now."

Having smoothed out this discrepancy in the record, Sam and Robin continued in their account of that evening: how Sam had ridden in the bed of the truck with her, crying considerably louder than she was, and became almost inconsolable waiting in the hallway while the doctors treated Robin's broken ankle.

"While you were in with your parents and the doctor I couldn't keep myself from thinking that I'd completely done myself in. Never mind the embarrassment of running off with you scared out of my mind, I thought you're parents were livid."

"You poor thing! A more ridiculous notion couldn't have been made. I told my mom about how you'd proposed to me up on the hill, and she burst out laughing when she saw that I intended to go through with it. 'You're really in for it Robin' was what she kept saying. I didn't really know what she meant at the time, I was just glad she didn't disapprove."

"Your mom was always the wisest woman I knew. I think she realized what a wonderful life you were in for," thoughtfully.

"Or she knew I'd have a horrible time of it convincing my dad. He never fully approved of you."

"John didn't approve? I don't think so. We got along just fine he and I. I think that was just a show he put on for you and your mom."

"Maybe he was just too polite to let you think otherwise," Robin laughs.

"Maybe so. Anyway, it all worked out in the end didn't it?"

"It did indeed." Robin concludes.

They had reached the end of their recounting for that morning. Sam takes Robin's mug and strolls back into the kitchen to tidy up.

***

​

The man looks up from the paper for a moment to read back what he'd gotten down so far. The dialogue was a bit unrealistic, but touching enough to keep. After all, he thought, there were entire books written with worse dialogue than that. Too frail to pace around the house like he used to, his mind wanders from sitting still. He looks out the window for a moment, admiring the hilltop beyond his little yard and the collection of trees perched atop it, wondering what ought to happen in this little story next, and also wishing that he'd gotten to spend more quiet mornings on a porch swing. Not wanting to start feeling too sorry for himself, he turns his attention back to the typewriter and begins again.

​

***

They were both of them recently retired, and their two kids, Max and Jane, were out of the nest, so Sam spends his morning quietly reading upstairs. Robin works in the garden for a couple hours, then leaves Sam to his books and meets her friend Diane for brunch in town. When they're finished, they walk together into different shops, all of which they were familiar with, but always found some excuse to look in to check on something. Robin buys a bottle of wine and a bakery cake for dinner that night.

Sam eventually emerges from the house at around noon and drives an old black sedan out to the local college, where he'd been taking a twice-weekly painting class for several months. He really admires the instructor, who was 20 years younger than him but a much more accomplished individual, but feels considerably less respect for some of his fellow students, who often spent the classes chit-chatting in the back of the studio, not really painting much of anything.

They both arrive back home at around the same time, and spend some time together upstairs changing for a neighborhood dinner get-together. Robin is completely engaged in a retelling of the most recent gossip, passed along to her by Diane earlier that day, which she wants to review before they reconvened with everyone for dinner. Sam, who is an expert at agreeing and nodding at appropriate times, had just finished putting on his tie when she reached the end of her story, and he finishes it with "Sounds like an awful mess to me. The Joneses are hosting tonight?"

"Yes dear, that's why I was just telling you about how their son Arthur's gone and dropped out of college. It's a terrible mess indeed."

The two of them go out and pile into the car. Robin sits with the bakery cake and bottle of wine in her lap, and they both talk eagerly about all the wonderful things their kids were up to, what with Max already in a management position at his firm, and Jane doing so well in college. "I think she must just be having the time of her life," Robin says. "That's a good line," chuckles Sam, "maybe don't use it with the Joneses tonight though."

"Oh stop it!" Robin laughs, "You're just horrible!"

The moon shines coldly between overcast night skies. The highway is mostly empty, branches of trees gliding smoothly overhead as they take the next curve. All of a sudden the old black sedan lurches violently as Sam swerves out of the way of an oncoming car - probably a drunk driver - and almost hits a tree as they tumble off the highway. Robin's cake flies out of her lap and smashes into the dashboard, partially ruined. "Jesus!" Sam shouts, and honks at the other car, already speeding away uncontrolled. "You alright dear?"

"I'll be ok, shaken a bit though for sure. I don't think the cake is alright."

"Least the car's ok," Sam says grimacing, "and the wine."

The rest of the night progresses undisturbed. They are met with open arms upon arriving late to the party. Upon retelling the incident, Sam is showered with compliments on his reflexes, and the rest of the party takes turns condemning the other driver for his various transgressions.

"I can't even bear to think what would've happened, with the roads being as quiet as they are this time of night," Mrs. Jones chimes in exasperated.

"We got very lucky that's for sure," Robin agrees, hooking her arm around Sam's.

Despite a messy car, destroyed cake, and shaken couple, the party goes well. They all carefully avoid the subject of college, and politely ignore the Joneses ordeal with Arthur, who, fortunately for them, was out with friends that night and not home.

The drive home is much quieter and much more cautious. As they merge off the highway, Sam turns to Robin, his eyes moist from preemptive tears, "I don't know how many days like this we've got left honey, but I hope you know how much I appreciate each one."

"Oh Sam, I do. We're gonna be just fine for a good long while, I can promise you that."

___

The man looks up from his typewriter, and pulls out his finished work, the last couple lines of which were written through silent streams of tears. He's happy with himself that he managed to save Sam and Robin from a car crash, and satisfied at how this story concluded itself.

He gets out of his chair, puts all the papers in order, and replaces the ream of still-empty sheets in his desk drawer. Walking slowly and carefully, he makes his way outside, beyond the official confines of his property, and up onto the wonderfully green hill.

This was the man's daily exercise, walking up to the copse of trees up on the hill, a quaint collection of sprouting Oaks and ancient Sycamores, and making his way to a tiny clearing at its center, where he liked to sit and watch the branches sway in the wind.

Though he is himself alone, he realizes as he thinks over the story he'd written again, that he loved Sam as though he were Robin, and loved Robin as though he were Sam. He didn't know how many days he had left either, when he could sit in the quiet comforts accumulated over a long, settled life, but he intended to experience as much life as possible using whatever time he had left. And so the next day, returning again to his study in the early morning the man begins to write once more.

- ALGC