The BUCK stops WHERE? Part.04

The concluding chapter of a recent story by Bob Buckeye of Middlebury, VT.


Buckeye links:
http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_hb3544/is_200203/ai_n8361544
http://lakewoodobserver.com/home.php?which=columns&col=14



At Columbia, a sea of expectant faces, the country of the young.
by Robert Buckeye


It was not in a bar. The bar was later. Sarah was 22, just graduated from college, waiting for law school to begin in the fall. It was a coffee shop. Excuse me, Dylan said. Can I borrow your salt and pepper? There's none at my table. Two days later he said, it's not the salt and pepper. It's you. May I sit down? You're Sarah, right?

That summer everything seemed a risk. She would hold a new dress up in front of her in the mirror, and ask, is that me? Is that how I want to look? She would not be thinking of anything when she heard a line from a song and thought it had to do with her. She would meet someone new and worry about getting involved. There was law school in the fall, her future to think of, life to plan. She held back. In college she chained herself to her future, and before then had been the daughter her parents wanted.

As it turned out, nothing stood in her way that summer. You had salt and pepper on your table she said to Dylan the first time they went out. You did not want me to think you were arrogant. No, he answered. I did not want you to think I took you for granted. No, she told him. You gave yourself an excuse, if you needed one. He laughed.

When the waitress asked if they wanted another beer at the bar they had gone to, he saw her hesitate and said, you know, I'm tired of two-drink girls. I saw too many of them in college. They were afraid to live. Do you think they would stay up and talk all night? Drive to the ocean to see the sun rise over water?

The next time she saw Dylan he took her out in his black TR-3 on a deserted country road east of Providence. It was a clear, moonlit night, and the countryside was pale silver, like no other silver she had seen.

At 70 miles per hour, the wind blew through her hair.
At 80 miles per hour, he put his hand against hers on her thigh.
At 90, she smiled, pleased.
She brushed hair off her forehead, ran a finger down his cheek when they reached 100.
At 110 miles per hour, she did not care what lay ahead.

The first time Dylan put his hand against my cheek I knew how it would feel, as if he had touched me before. I can't explain it. I already knew the hard, calloused bump on the skin of his forefinger from a shard of glass that had not been removed after a childhood accident. I rubbed my cheek against his finger.


Last week in the supermarket she ran into Nancy Kolb who asked about Dylan. Faculty liked him. She would not be surprised if the college gave him an administrative assignment. God help me, Sarah answered. He's not cut out for administration. Not like your husband. Dylan would tie himself in knots. Bill takes to administration like a duck to water.

For a moment, Nancy tested a melon to see how ripe it was. Her forehead was creased, drawn, and the pallor of her skin was pale, almost white. Bill's not the man I married, she said, without looking at Sarah. Sarah did not know what to say and after a moment said, good to see you, got to get this on the table tonight, and wheeled her cart to the frozen foods. Will she say that? she asked putting groceries in the trunk of the car. Or had she already?


They did have that third beer. They did talk all night. They did drive to the ocean. The sun was pale orange in a lavender sky streaked with black slashes. Waves broke softly over her bare feet. She found shells, a starfish. It was a beginning. The man she had been waiting for had come in the door. She had broken out for him. They had settled down. Law school reined her in. Phd work anchored Dylan. They did what they were supposed to do.

[END]