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By Christopher Lake Submitted by Misti Date: 2002 Jul 31 Comment on this Work [[2002.07.31.02.57.18454]] |
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Before going there Bob Rossi read the only letters she had ever written to him. There were three of them, and they were dated the first, second, and third of June from their last year in high school. It was a time that seemed to him that May when he traveled to the coast to work on a fishing boat to have never even happened at all. The person who had his name then was unknown to him now; Marguerite grew more real to him in her absence. The letters, written by hand in a small and restrained print, were all that he had of her. Not even a photograph. Consequently, as their actual conversations became fewer and more trivial, he grew to value what she had written and eventually to memorize just about every word of it. In his mind she did not change, nor would she for as long as he knew her on these terms. A woman by that time--the month he left Orange Valley in upstate New York to work--her hair would remain auburn to him whether it actually still was in reality. He drove slower than usual along the two-lane road that would take him to a major highway and then to his destination on the coast, just at the mouth of a river. The town he was heading to was a small one. He had been there before--the year before the previous one--to do the same sort of work. All the fishing would be done in the bay, according to a schedule based around the cycle of the tides. The pay for this was adequate for his needs. He drove slow, but not too slow, because he was happy and was thinking about her. The wind singing through the two open windows in the front seat and warmth in the air instilled in him no urgency to arrive too soon. He was well ahead of schedule and enjoyed recalling past exchanges with the girl and singing Bach to himself and whoever could hear along the road and in other cars. But their relationship--if it could have been called one--was little more than that of two friends. And not very close ones at that. They saw each other on and off during their final year in high school. She asked him to a movie once; he took her hiking in the mountains. It was only once they had graduated and she was busy with things and other people that he realized he loved her. Just like that. That was all there was to it. It was a sharp, almost unpleasant, and unmistakable feeling. There was nothing to prepare him for it and he could not convince himself otherwise. Bob's real problem was his inability to act. In college he became particularly fascinated by Sartre because he knew, based upon where this character trait had led him, that the philosopher was right. To his teachers he said nothing, nor did it ever enter into his papers. It was nonetheless something that, once it had gotten into his head, he would not argue with others or let go of. He made it through the first year, becoming more aware each day of his situation, of what Marguerite meant to him now, of the impossibility--yet absolute necessity--of action. In the writings of every thinker, poet, and philosopher that he came across and liked he could find condemnation and consolation. He could feel, in a symphony or painting or novel, the girl. She was everywhere. So he would work for a month or two on the fishing boat, earn enough money to pay for his final semester of college and other expenses and, he resolved, see the dilemma to some conclusion. He would tell her these things--and what had happened since June of 19--. Even if her reaction was one of simple indifference he would feel better. He thought: But Marguerite was so damned kind; could she really do that? Why the hell not? The landscape along the side of the road became more unfamiliar. Bob liked this. He liked leaving behind what he knew. He asked himself aloud what it is when the energy from another time, for another person, provides all will and drive in the present. An hour and a half into the trip, he would soon be there. It really wasn't that far from where he lived. But, being closer to the ocean, it seemed that way. There would be other places to go, he knew, but this was necessary in the meantime. And that was all that mattered. This is what he told himself and was quiet for a moment before beginning something Billie Holiday used to sing. The Bach cantata had ended. He would have liked it if there was someone else in the car to talk to. The fishermen that Bob would work with were, in his estimation, good guys. After just one season he knew them quite well; with their drinking and sex-driven humor and pasts that they would not elaborate upon, he was fascinated. It was a small crew--including Bob, only five people. One man operated the small outboard motor on the skiff, two--of which Bob was one--were in charge of the nets, and a fourth person had the responsibility of placing the fish once they were caught in peach baskets and do any work with a knife that was needed. The last man was more or less the boss. But looking at how he acted--how he treated the others--one would never know this. Bob liked him best. There was more to what they did, of course. Still, the money was not much better than what Bob could making doing something at home. But money had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. It was the people, the physical nature of the work, the self-sufficiency and self-testing. After his absent Marguerite, he valued these things more than he knew. They were his sustenance and his bread. The fishing would probably begin as soon as he arrived, thought Bob. He noted that there had been almost a week of hot days and warm rain in the evenings. He felt rested. The tiredness he had felt at college was gone. The fish were on their way up the river to spawn. That sort of weather really moved them. |