Timing Being Everything

"I just had a feeling," I say.

"Do you get those sometimes?" she retorts. “Since you lost your job, you’ve been a real pain!”

Yeah, so there is that. We're near where she wants to go, and we'll be there soon.

It's so hot this July in May, with the air conditioning shot and the car trembling in a turn, which tells me that air conditioning isn't the only problem. 

"Watch it!" She screams, grabbing the dashboard as I narrowly avoid the curb.

"Curb your enthusiasm," I think, playing with words in my mind. The road is a battlefield, our worn-out Goodyears only half meeting the heaving asphalt with every turn.

I glance at her, sweat beginning to descend from her finely tuned hair, her hands frantically trying to keep it from whipping around in the breeze that pummels everything through our open windows: discarded old pizza boxes, Chinese food slips, and our "potluck" potato salad.

Which sits in the middle of the back seat in a wicker basket, white with pea spots, celery, onion, and mayo, eggy enough that I imagined that if it could be left out in the heat long enough...

"Did you put the ice packs in the basket?" she asks, and I give her a long, loving look. 

"Aww, sure, sweetheart!" I croon. “There’s an ice pack for everything you know—not that you would ever give me one.”

She doesn't reply. Blinking in time to the dust and gravel now that we have turned off the main road and she is shielding her eyes from the brutal sun. I remember our last road trip together, her laughter filling the car as we sang along to old tunes. Now, that laughter feels like a distant echo.

"I forgot my sunglasses," she mumbles. She shields her eyes from the brutal sun, her expression softening momentarily. "I miss how things used to be," she whispers, almost to herself. Her words hang in the air, a rare glimpse of the woman I fell in love with.

The road rises to crest one last hill. That old Irish blessing came to mind, “May the road rise to meet you, and… How does it go? It must not have blessed me and passed me by.

"I knew it!" I finally say, "I said I had a feeling you’d forget something."

“No, you didn’t!” she yells.

“Actually, I did! And you made a crack about how I have no feelings!”

She’s hyped up now, and I can see it. Her hands are trying to mold her hair, a panoply of cares and vexations creasing her face.

Then she explodes. “Maybe we should separate for a while? I can’t stand this.”

I can feel the car shake. So many stones are kicking up. But I don’t slow down, enjoying the sound of rocks pelting the car's underside. Gravel is more pure and free than words ever could be.

This is what you find in cottage country, where everyone keeps their old fridge, coil-burner stove, rabbit-ear TV, and moldy rug. Where people talk in paragraphs while watching others waterski over humps of water, with less to do and even less to believe in. Or worry about.

Except for the sun, which is always new. It's so hot and inviting. Oh, to just dive in and be lost forever, in endless burning. Clear everything away! Burn it all up!

We arrived at the picnic spot, the car shuddering to a halt. As we stepped out, the smell of grilled meat and the sound of laughter greeted us, a stark contrast to the tension in the car. I removed the key and grabbed the basket, which was so warm.

 She's already smiling at Aunt Who and Uncle What? Their names confuse me, and they are unlike what I imagined. It's like meeting ghosts with warm hands and tippy glasses at our wedding long ago. There's nothing to look forward to.

Family get-togethers are where people try to get caught up. Not that I matter. I'm with her, my wife.

"You want a beer, Josh?" It’s her brother, Jim.

He's over the moon on the barbecue, skewering hotdogs and patting down sweaty hamburgers. Peppering conversation, with "You're right about that!" and "Turn the music up!" his earnest sweat like happy tears that have only one place to drop.

I've seen that smile, toothy and busy, while I linger with the basket at hand.

"Beer?" I say, the sun piercing the gloom at midday. That word was like a secret password, the balm for any problem. But it's so hot that I can’t think.

I offer the salad while noting the time of day. Knots of people are laughing at old jokes, slapping knees, and tossing quotes.

"You remember when old McFadden had a farm?" Said one to another.

"Old who?" The reply

Laughter drowns out the punch line. What's wrong with the script? Their lines are jumbled and confused. Not that it matters.

I turn to stare at Jim. "Do you want the frigging potato salad or not?" My voice is louder than intended, shocking myself as much as anyone else.

I've drowned out the Bluetooth speaker, the barbecue spitting, and Jim's frozen smile. My wife scurries over, grabbing the basket with one hand to her mouth.

She faces the mob and smiles; it's like her acceptance speech for winning "best at something" in high school.

"He's just tired! Too much work, you know it?" she announces. A few people guffaw, then yell back, their beery expressions forgiving everything.

Then she briefly dips her head, with thankfulness in her eyes. Applause should follow. Yet she whirls on me.

"Honey!" She whisper-screams near my ear. So inexact, timing being everything.

"I'll get that beer," Jim says. While everyone else resumes relaxing, I eye the basket as a niece, whose name I forget, carries it slowly to the picnic table—a dull wart amongst the cheery plates and gaudy beverages.

We line up to eat, droopy paper plates meeting hard plastic forks and stringy food in all different sizes. The forks splay and fumble the food, and knives won't cut it. Bugs pile in, bees enjoy it.

One man starts squishing wasps with his thumb, He answers the unasked question, "I never get stung," he says, flicking writhing carcasses off the picnic table.

Who knew? I wasn't in that moment; my plans were uninvited.

She stood there, serving. That niece, whose hands moved lightly, opened the wicker basket.

"Potato salad, Uncle Josh?"

Her face was so unblemished. Unusual for teenagers, don’t you think? Friendly to a fault.

The top was off, and everything was revealed. I stared at the ominous liquid between the glistening lumps and wondered when it would all stop.

"None for me!" I cheerily said, like someone deciding not to take a selfie at the edge of a cliff.

How many washrooms might be needed for twenty-odd people, a slippery food bomb away from catastrophe, and I'm not one of the targets? A simple math problem for everyone else to solve. So unlike the sun’s passing or night falling.