Now I'll Tell You Everything

  “You’re no help, Lester. If we were lost in a jungle together, we’d get eaten by the first thing that came along,” I told him.

  The river was beautiful with the reflection of the afternoon sun on the water. There was a homemade dock at the water’s edge and a rowboat tied to a post.

  “Whose boat?” asked Sylvia.

  “Bill, our neighbor’s,” said Stacy. “He’d be glad to let you use it.”

  “Sure you’re up to this, Al?” Les asked. “We’d need to get up really early, when the fish are biting.”

  “I’m fine as long as we’re in a boat,” I said.

  We enjoyed Stacy’s chicken divan that evening and Lester’s homemade wine. As darkness closed in, we could hear the night sounds in the woods, and I began to feel more relaxed than I had in a long time. We all retired early, Dad and Sylvia in the guest room and me on a daybed under a handmade quilt, in the little home office off the living room.

  * * *

  Les tapped on my door about five the next morning.

  “Al? You still want to go fishing, or would you rather sleep?” came his voice from outside the door.

  My eyes opened a slit. Surely it couldn’t be morning already. I felt myself sliding back into sleep, but he tapped again and stuck his head inside. “If we want to catch anything, we’ve got a better chance if we go now. Bill says the fishing’s best between five and seven.”

  “I’m up, I’m up,” I said hoarsely, willing my eyes to open.

  And finally I was in the kitchen in my jeans and sneakers and an old sweatshirt of Stacy’s, my hair in a ponytail, nothing but ChapStick on my face.

  “I made us a couple of peanut butter sandwiches and dug up a can’s worth of night crawlers for bait after you went to bed last night,” he said. “I think we’re set.”

  He handed me the bait can, a bucket, the sandwiches, and a thermos, while he carried the rods, the tackle box, and a flashlight.

  I didn’t worry about snakes this time because no snake would be trying to sun itself yet. Something scurried across the path—a chipmunk, I think—but I kept my eyes on the beam of the flashlight ahead, and finally we were at the dock. Les held the rowboat steady while I climbed in.

  There was something special about being out on a river before dawn with my married brother—watching the slow current make its way around the boat, the trees barely visible, birds calling from shore to shore.

  “Right about here,” Les said, maneuvering the boat to a point almost even with a fallen tree on the opposite bank. “This is where Bill suggested we try our luck.”

  I wanted Les to know I could do whatever he could do, so—in the early morning light—I watched how he baited a hook and practiced tossing my line in the water. I never got it as far out as he wanted it to be, but he said that would do, and we settled down to eat our sandwiches and watch the bobbers moving slightly up and down on the water. I was glad that Stacy had suggested I bring a box of wipes along. Never eat a peanut butter sandwich right after you’ve baited a hook unless you have some wipes.

  “I think married life’s agreeing with you, Les,” I said. “Stacy, too. You both look great. What’s it been now—three years?”

  “Coming up on four,” Les said. “Yep, we’re doing fine. I can’t say I’ll stay in this job forever, but for now we both like living here a lot.”

  I saw that his bobber had gone under, but when Les reeled his line in, the hook was empty.

  “Took the bait and got away,” Les said, and dug another night crawler out of the can.

  We weren’t having much luck. Les picked up the anchor once and moved to a different location, but we got only a few nibbles and lost a lot of night crawlers.

  When the sun had risen full, reflecting off the water, we passed the sunblock back and forth for something to do. The minutes ticked by, and I began to feel that I was being hypnotized by the bobber and that if Lester were to chant You are sleepy, you are sleepy, I’d probably topple over.

  Suddenly my bobber went under, and I felt a tug on my line.

  “I got something! I got something!” I cried excitedly.

  “Okay, easy now. Don’t let the line go slack,” Les said, standing up as my line moved in the water. “Keep it taut while you reel it in, and not too fast.”

  The line was heavy, and the rod was slightly bent.

  “Got a big one, Al. Want help?” Les asked, taking a step toward me. Even he was excited.

  “No! I want to do it myself!” I cried, sounding like a four-year-old. “Is the bucket ready? Do we have a net?”

  “No net, but the bucket’s ready. Just keep pulling it in . . .”

  The line kept jerking. The fish was obviously trying to get away, but the closer it got to the boat, the heavier the line felt. I was afraid it was going to wriggle loose of the hook, the rod bending farther and farther, and finally I flung the line backward, and a long, silver, slithering something landed flopping and twisting in the rowboat.

  “A snake!” I screamed, and fell backward, down into the bottom of the boat.

  “Al!” yelled Les.

  “A snake!” I shrieked again, letting go of the rod, and suddenly the creature was on top of me.

  “Get it off! Get it off!” I screamed.

  “It’s an eel,” Les yelled back, trying to grab the line and steady it, but the slithering thing flipped around on top of my chest until finally Les grabbed it with both hands and threw it back in the water.

  He stood there looking down at me, and I could see he was trying not to laugh. “You okay?” he asked.

  “You didn’t tell me there were snakes in the river!” I chided, struggling to get up again.

  “It was an eel, Al.”

  “It was a snake. A water snake! A water moccasin or something!”

  “E-E-L,” he spelled out, reaching down to pull me up.

  “Prove it.”

  “I can’t. I threw it back. It was too big for the bucket, and I couldn’t subdue you both. If I’d had a net, though, I would have put it over you.” He steadied the boat, a hand on either side, as I awkwardly pulled myself back onto the seat.

  “Sure you’re not hurt?” Les asked.

  “We might have both been bitten and poisoned,” I said, rubbing my shoulder. “It was at least four feet long.”

  “Three, maybe.” Les grinned. “Ready to go back and get some breakfast?”

  “Yes.” I was more civil now. “And thanks for the fishing trip, Les, even though you live near a snake-infested river.”

  “Eel,” said Les, picking up the oars and turning the boat around.

  “Full of water moccasins and snakeheads,” I muttered.

  When we got back, Dad and Sylvia and Stacy were having coffee.

  “How was the fishing?” Dad asked.

  “We had a nibble or two, but nothing we could bring back,” said Les. “The fish just weren’t biting much this morning.”

  “All except the snakeheads,” I said.

  “Snakeheads?” Stacy paused, holding the coffeepot. “Did you see a snakehead? We’re supposed to report them if we see any. Fish and Wildlife Service is trying to keep them out of West Virginia rivers.”

  “Yeah, I’ll file a report,” said Les, and I could see that he was struggling to hold back a grin. “I’ll tell them there was some weird thing out on the river this morning . . . couldn’t quite make out what it was, but it was wearing one of my wife’s old sweatshirts and was definitely new to West Virginia waters.”

  * * *

  It was hard to leave Les and Stacy and their little home in the woods. They seemed so content with each other, and I wanted Patrick and me to be as happy as they were.

  After breakfast, and then lunch on their screened porch, Les walked our bags to the car.

  “So what’s the secret of a happy marriage, Les?” I asked.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Always say yes.”

  “C’mon. Really.”

  “It’s something every couple has to
work out for themselves, Al. I can’t give you a formula. To live together with anyone takes adjusting, you know that—even roommates.”

  “Okay, but what works for you and Stacy?”

  Les opened the trunk of Dad’s car and put the bags in. “Number one, listen. Number two, always be honest. Three, never take your company fishing.”

  I poked him in the ribs. “I had a good time anyway, Les. I guess we’ll see each other at the wedding, if not before?”

  “October it is. Got your wedding present all wrapped and ready.”

  “Really? What is it? Tell me now!” I begged.

  “A tackle box and bait bucket,” he said.

  * * *

  I got my master’s degree in June—just a plain old MA, no frills, but I was pleased and so was Dad. Patrick gave me a small gold heart on a gold chain for a present. He graduated too that summer from the University of Chicago—summa cum laude, of course—bought a car, and moved to Maryland when he was hired in about two minutes by a think tank in DC studying health and food production in developing countries.

  Since I’d be living at home temporarily, the Stedmeisters invited Patrick to stay with them till the wedding. He and Mark had been good friends, and this helped them feel that they were still part of Mark’s life. They gave Patrick a key to the house and told him to come and go as he pleased, and we were grateful. Even though Montgomery County had no openings for a counselor at this time, we went apartment hunting, and we finally found one in a new complex in Bethesda. It would be completed about a month before we married.

  We had set our wedding date for October 18, in the church on Cedar Lane where Dad had taken Sylvia to the Messiah Sing-Along, where he and Sylvia had been married, and where Les and Stacy, too, had said their vows. I promised myself our wedding would be as easy on our relatives and guests as possible. I would not ask them to travel to some distant location, would let my bridesmaids help choose their dresses, and most definitely would request, in the program, that guests remain seated when the bride came in. I hate the way everybody rises, like she’s royalty or something.

  In fact, Abby, Valerie, and I used to wonder where that old idea came from that this is her day—like everything has to be exactly the way she wants it.

  Claire saw it differently. “But it is her day! It’s the day in her life she’s the most beautiful. She’s giving herself to her new husband.”

  “What?” I cried. “What is she, a loaf of bread? He’s giving himself to her too, remember.”

  “It’s not the same,” Claire said.

  “It’s their day!” we argued. “The bride’s and the groom’s.”

  “Nobody looks at the groom. Everyone looks at the bride,” said Claire, and there was no reasoning with her.

  In any case, although I was as anxious as anyone else to be beautiful on our wedding day, I sure didn’t want a trumpet-style entrance when I came down the aisle.

  Like Liz, I couldn’t decide which of my friends should be my maid of honor. I could have chosen my cousin too, and Carol would have been the perfect choice, but she was in Pennsylvania now and had just started a new job, so it wouldn’t be fair to saddle her with all the duties that go along with it. Same for Stacy in West Virginia, Pamela in New York, and Gwen in medical school now, not just premed. Valerie was in Oklahoma, and Abby had moved to Oregon and gone into partnership with her aunt. Maybe there’s something to be said for getting married while all your close friends are still around you!

  It was easy, then, when both Gwen and Pamela suggested that I ask Liz to do the honor, since she was a teacher now and had the summer off. Liz said she’d be thrilled. And Stacy simplified things when she asked if she could be in charge of the guest book, as I’d done for her. So I had my cousin and five best girlfriends in the wedding party, and Patrick said he’d come up with five male friends too, plus Lester. Whew. I figured the hardest part was over.

  There was a similar discussion about a bachelorette party and a shower. Pamela was determined there should be some kind of a night out for the gals, but it was hard enough getting people together for even one night, much less two.

  And then I got a phone call from Mark’s mother.

  “Alice, I would like very much to give you a bridal shower,” she said. “I’m not sure if young women have such things anymore or if they’re anything like the ones I remember when I was a girl, but I’d like to try. It’s been so much fun having Patrick stay with us while your apartment building is being finished, and . . . well, I would just like to do this, too.”

  “Mrs. Stedmeister, that would be lovely,” I said. “And I hope it will be just the kind of shower you remember, because that’s the kind I want.”

  When I called my bridesmaids and told them, Pamela’s reaction was, “At the Stedmeisters’? We’re going to have a fifties-style shower?”

  “They’re not that old,” I said. “And whatever she plans will be fine with me.”

  And it was. I had given her my guest list for the wedding. Her name was on it, of course, and Sylvia’s, and we chose the women who were my own special friends, excusing both Val and Abby, whom I wouldn’t expect to fly in just for a shower. I wanted to include Marilyn, who had worked so long for Dad at the Melody Inn, and Claire and my friend Yolanda, and whomever else Mrs. Stedmeister would like to invite.

  Les had driven in with Stacy for the weekend, and he and Patrick and Moe said they were going out for the evening, a little bachelor party, they told us—wink, wink—and alluded to a night in Baltimore, known for some of the racier clubs. When I arrived at Mrs. Stedmeister’s, however, and remarked on what a beautiful evening it was, she said, “Oh, isn’t it? And a perfect night for a ball game, too.”

  The Orioles! I thought. Those guys had known all along they were going to Camden Yards to watch the Orioles play, but they liked to torment us with thoughts of a strip joint.

  “Was Mark a fan?” I asked.

  “Indeed he was, and Patrick was even wearing Mark’s Orioles cap when they left. In fact, Ed’s back there watching the game right now.” She nodded toward their study. “I told him to keep the noise down.”

  I exchanged smiles with Liz, and we went on into the living room, where I was met with the welcoming faces of so many women I loved.

  “Marilyn!” I said. “I haven’t seen you in ages. And Carol!”

  The room was full of happy chatter as introductions were made, and I was surprised to find that Mrs. Long had come all the way from Wisconsin. Patrick’s dad was having dinner with a friend from their days in the State Department.

  “Edith Stedmeister and I were friends even before we realized we had two sons in the same grade,” Patrick’s mom told me.

  “Yes, Virginia and I were in the Republican Women’s Club, and we’ve been friends ever since,” said Mrs. Stedmeister. “Just another reason I’m glad to have Patrick stay with us until the wedding.”

  It was a night right out of a bygone age—for me, anyway. Mrs. Long had been given the honor of presiding over the silver tea service in the dining room, and as we each passed the table, having filled our china dessert plates with bonbons and pastel-colored tea cakes, she handed us a cup and saucer, with exactly the right number of sugar cubes on the side and a slice of lemon.

  Back in the living room, gifts were presented to me one at a time by Mrs. Stedmeister, who read the inscription on each card and remarked on the beautiful wrapping paper, and what a lovely bow. And it was amazing how each of my friends morphed into the atmosphere, as though we were all cast in a movie of decades past, modulating our voices, censoring some of our expressions, and sitting upright with knees together, balancing a teacup on our laps.

  I exclaimed over each gift—the electric frying pan, the blender, the set of silken sheets, the fluffy blanket, the flatware set—and I was glad to get each one, because Patrick and I were starting out with nothing, nothing except a mini fridge, a microwave, some clothes hangers from college, and a very modest trust fund from his grandfather.
The Longs, wealthy as they were, believed that once a child had graduated, he had to make his own way in the world, and we agreed. Few children were left trust funds from their grandfathers, it’s true, but until Patrick reached twenty-five, his was only enough to cover car expenses for a year, if that.

  “I love you guys,” I told my friends, holding the soft new blanket against my cheek. “I’ll think of you every time I crawl into bed.”

  “That will be the last thing on your mind,” Pamela said, and that got a laugh from even Mrs. Long and Mrs. Stedmeister.

  At the end of the evening, after I had thanked all my guests, Mrs. Stedmeister stood up to make a little speech—things she remembered about me: my freckles, which grew more prominent in the summertime; my laughter, which she could always distinguish from the others. . . . And as I studied this tall, thin woman with the angular face, only her hair seemed to have changed from the short salt-and-pepper look she used to have to the almost white hair it was now. I could still see her standing uncomfortably at one end of the Stedmeisters’ swimming pool the afternoon she announced that there would be no drinking or pot smoking at their house.

  What courage that must have taken for this shy woman with the soft voice, looking out over the wet heads of us swimmers, who had all gathered at the side of the pool to stare up at her. The gracious woman who had, week after week, put out refreshments for us on their picnic table and then disappeared, who had allowed us to leave puddles in her bathroom and stray towels and parts of bathing suits, which we would find laundered and neatly folded the next time we came. I felt a special love for this woman who had suffered a tragedy I could only imagine, who was somehow softening it by treating Mark’s friends as her own.

  She was talking now about my former fear of the deep end of the pool and how I had finally conquered that, of how pretty I’d looked in a new bathing suit, and I realized that she knew far more about us than we had ever guessed, she and her short, pudgy little husband who had spent so much time working on cars in the driveway with Mark.

  “I’ll always be grateful to you both,” I said when she’d finished and had presented me with a beautiful little box of thank-you cards. “You and your husband put up with more than we expected or deserved, and if there were a badge of courage for that, the Stedmeisters would have received it.”