Closing the Circle

They were at it again.

Don felt like running a marathon on a treadmill would be more productive. He never knew what the arguments were about. They went round and round with no finish line in sight.

He said, “I don’t care about winning, Joyce. Can’t we resolve this? I don’t even know what this is about.”

Joyce sensed Don’s change in attitude. “It’s always the same, Don. You don’t get it.”

“That tells me nothing.”

Joyce busied herself about the kitchen. “Why don’t you go then? Just go.”

Don shook his head. “That’s it? That’s your solution? I should leave?”

“Amazing. You heard that.”

“Yes, I heard it. Hear this, Joyce. If I go, I’m not coming back. That’s it.”

“Big talk. Promises. Promises.”

Don saw no future in continuing this or anything now. He turned to leave. Joyce didn’t speak. She’d gotten the last word.

Don shut the door behind him and walked to his car. Unprepared for this, he felt disoriented. What happened? Where would he go? Is it really over? Ten years down the drain? How did this happen? What am I missing?

He drove without purpose. Dealing with traffic kept him grounded tenuously to reality.

Of course it had been over long before he left. Joyce had wanted this for years. Don tried to laugh at his thought, “It may take two to tango, but only one to sink the boat.”

He found himself in the lot at the Home Depot. He grabbed a cart and tried to clear his head while walking up and down endless aisles.

Everything he looked at evoked memories. He walked by a DIY kid’s playhouse. Don remembered the one he constructed in the rain for his kids, Jeff and Grant one Christmas Eve. They couldn’t believe their eyes that Christmas morning.

Don stood in the checkout line with a cart full of tools and materials.  When he realized his new project had no purpose, Don snorted and left the cart and the building. 

“What am I doing? Is it me?” Silence? Reason? Kindness? No. Don assured himself he had tried every possible way to make things better. He never could find the words that worked.

He muttered to himself as he drove. “So often, words are worth no more than packing material. They fill the time and cushion the meaning. But finding gold in the slurry of verbiage…” He grunted. “Of course, Joyce never cushioned anything. She aimed every word precisely at the jugular, the knee, the heart… And she generally hit the mark.”

He slammed the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. “Where will I stay? I need clothes.”

Don assessed his location and made a turn toward the closest discount store. Navigating the parking lot brought more memories flooding back.

School supplies, play clothes, garden supplies… what didn’t they buy here?

Don filled his cart with packs of underwear and socks. He found some slacks which fit. A few shirts. A shaving kit. It would all fit inside the rolling suitcase he found.

At checkout, the cashier examined the interior of the tag-along for wayward sundries. She found none. After completing the sale, Don stuffed everything into the case and left the cart for someone else to stow. Armed with the receipt he dragged the case behind him.

The prospect of renting a motel room depressed Don even more. The pre-fab hominess with no discernible personality repelled him. There must be an alternative. He couldn’t think of anyone to call.

Don remembered that his office had a couch. Worst case, he could sleep there, shave and change before anyone else arrived on the scene.

He drove by an Alpine style lounge. Don had driven by it for years. He’d never ventured inside despite Joyce’s claim he’d been to every watering hole in the state. He needed a place to sit in quiet.

Inside, the bar looked like any old bar with low lights and plush booths. Don couldn’t imagine the purpose of the Alpine theme. He ordered a scotch and water and took a seat at a small table. He never sat at the bar itself. He liked keeping an eye on things. People who sat at the bar were pathetic.

Some game was on the TV but Don didn’t care. He needed to sort things out.

Don had returned to his chair with his second drink when a woman walked by him toward the restrooms. He paid her no more mind than he would anything else crossing his field of view. But after she passed, it occurred to Don he knew her.

He started an internal debate. Did he actually know her? From where? She didn’t appear to know him. He must be imagining it. He felt in no mood for chit chat or anything else. Don considered leaving. Why make nice with someone he didn’t even remember? But he’d just bought a second drink.

Then his memory flashed on the connection. It must have been at that job a dozen years back. Before Joyce. They flirted a bit, but it never went anywhere. Her name escaped him.

He stood to leave as she re-entered the bar. He couldn’t hide. She made a little wave as their eyes met.

“Don? You’re Don, right?”

“Busted.”

She laughed. Saving him the embarrassment of not remembering her name, she introduced herself.

“I’m Mary. We worked together years ago, right?”

“Right. Of course. At Sweet and James.” She smiled. “How are you?”

“I’m here with my husband. We’re great.” Mary indicated the other room. “I’d invite you to join us but we’re about to leave.”

“That’s okay. I’m waiting for some friends.”

“Okay. Good then. Well, nice seeing you again.” She knew he lied but let it pass. Who cares?

“Yes. Of course. Nice seeing you, Mary.”

She joined her husband and they exited together. Mr. Mary barely gave Don a passing glance.

Don looked at the half glass of scotch on the table. Time to go. He downed it and wobbled outside.

Don drove with all the windows open. The wind in his face felt good. He figured the oxygen would do him good. One freeway through an interchange to another. To another. He lost track. Don didn’t know how he got there. Or the way back.

The sun went down.

He took the next exit and looked for a service station. There were none. Where could he have driven that there were no gas stations?

He pulled up a side street into a residential neighborhood. Flying blind, he pulled into a cul-de-sac.

Don stopped in front of a house.

“Home again. Wait. Where am I? This isn’t where I live.”

Don looked at the house. Familiar, like some primal blueprint, but he couldn’t say how he knew it.

The neighborhood was eerily quiet. Don stared at the house. He sensed something about it. It felt like a phantom limb.

He remembered his father. This house, or one exactly like it, was where he last saw his father.

It all came back. He remembered his mother and father quarreling.

Playing in the next room, Don knew to stay quiet. He hadn’t thought of this forever. Now it was too familiar.

His Dad said, “Can’t we resolve this, Jane? Please tell me what this is about.”

 “It’s always the same, Paul. You just don’t get it.”

“Get what? That tells me nothing.”

He heard a clatter of dishes. “Why don’t you go then? Just go.”

After a pause, his Dad said, “That’s it? That’s your solution? Leave?”

“Amazing. You heard that.”

“I told you, Jane, if I go, I’m not coming back. That’s it.”

“If only. How many years has it taken you, Paul?”

The door closed behind his Dad. He didn’t say good-bye.

Don sat in the car staring at the house. He saw it as if it were happening in the moment. How many years? What was he, ten?

Don began to sob. It all came out.