by John Repp
The four of them stopped where the sand ran out and a path began. The son-in-law said, "Thoreau skinny-dipped here when it got too hot. If we follow this path, we'll come to a clearing. It'll be nice and cool, and we can eat." The rest nodded, mopping their faces in the white dazzle off the lake.
Mel had never been so hot or bored in his life. His clothes clung to him, and his eyes stung from the sweat that coursed down his forehead no matter how often he wiped it away. He shifted the picnic basket to his left hand and looked across the water at the reconstructed shack in which the Sage of Something or Other had lived his year in the "wilderness." Or was it two years? And wasn't the Sage somebody else entirely? Whatever, it looked cool in the shade over there, a few couples strolling, a woman in a huge straw hat chasing a toddler, a ranger standing on the threshold of the hut, selling his canned spiel to a clump of tourists. If the others had listened to him, they'd be eating and drinking right now under one of those ancient trees. What would have been so wrong about saving their hike for another time, just pick a tree, have a picnic, and leave? But no, they had to explore. Why come here and not explore? Couldn't he stand a little heat for a little adventure?
Well, sure, but this wasn't adventure, it was torture. He glanced at his wife, who gazed upon the goy who'd impregnated their daughter-- their only child!-- as if the sheer, stupid optimism of the man could cure the heat and the bugs. "Oh my," Esther said. "I can just taste those strawberries, can't you, Mel? Wasn't that fun to go pick them ourselves?" Mel nodded, shifted the basket to his right hand, swiped a horsefly off his temple with his left. He imagined a shriveled version of himself shuffling into a strawberry field overrun by a battalion of goyish grandchildren convinced that everything would work out for the best if you tried hard and stayed cheerful and lived in Waltham, Massachusetts, of all places. Good God.
His daughter twined her arms around the son-in-law's waist and leaned into him. In the two years since he'd begun taking her to craft fairs and fiddling contests and writing rhymed love poems-- rhymed! Whoever heard of an accountant that rhymed?-- she'd raved non-stop about the man's gentleness and intelligence and charm. Every visit meant a new shrine: Fenway Park, Lexington Green, the honest-to-Christ spinsters at Emerson's house talking about "Mr. Emerson" as if he'd toddle out of the library any second looking for his tea-time brandy.
Mel was the one could use a drink, though he hadn't had one for three years the previous Friday. As if he hadn't known down to the minute how long it had been, Esther had thrown a party, a few relatives having covered absurd distances to end up in his living room shouting "Surprise!" A "bartender" he knew from meetings at the 92nd Street Y cheerfully assembled Philadelphia Fizzes and West Side Wonders and, just for the occasion, Maximum Mels. Guest after guest slapped him on the shoulder or kissed him on the cheek or just looked meaningfully into his eyes--proud of you, turned things around, blah blah. Clutching his "cocktail" and a wedge of bagel and pastrami, the son-in-law had said he understood: the courage, the pain, an uncle he'd lost to "the disease." Esther said that as part of the family he deserved to know. As far as Mel was concerned, nobody deserved to know. Couldn't they at least let him have the craving to himself?
The son-in-law disentangled himself, stretched, slapped at a horsefly and sighed. Esther smiled at Mel. Their daughter patted her stomach, lifted the cover of the picnic basket, and sniffed. "Mmm-mmm. Even the baby wants some of that fried chicken." Mel wanted to slap her, wanted it so badly his palm stung from the imagined blow. He wanted to beat some sense into all of them, to grind their faces into the hot sand so they'd know how all this happiness felt to him. He put the basket down and thrust his hands toward his daughter, said "No--" and stopped.
They looked at him--his daughter's head tilted, both hands resting on her belly, Esther wearing her ready-to-be-disappointed expression, the son-in-law with his sunburned nose and blond beard and look of perpetual friendliness, hands balled in the pockets of his chinos. "No" was exactly right. He could strip like the Sage and run howling into the water, and they wouldn't see him. Nobody would. He was helpless to change anything. The meetings had sure drilled that into him. Acceptance was the key. Then things would change all by themselves. What a TV movie-of-the-week the whole thing was, and all he could do was watch himself get sucked toward the happy ending, chastened but stronger, Ed Asner tearfully grabbing Tom Selleck in a manly, reconciled hug as the music swelled and the sun glinted off the water. He shook his head, chuckling, then let out a guffaw and began coughing.
Esther touched his arm. "Mel, dear, what is it?"
He caught his breath and shrugged. "Just the heat. I'll be all right once we find some shade." He picked up the basket and jerked his head toward the path. "Shall we?"
Insects whining, birds chirping and flitting, the four of them made sure they had everything, then stood a moment on the shore of Walden Pond. A car horn sounded, echoing over the water. Children screamed and splashed at the public beach. Soft summer thunder rumbled in the west. The son-in-law said, "Well now. I do believe it's time to find that clearing," so they started walking.