Backroads, v2

Around four that morning my eyes grew heavy and I pulled off the road onto a little dirt track and pitched my tent. While I settled in I heard deer munching on grass only a few yards away and I fell into a restless sleep full of troubled dreams and second thoughts. I woke to the smoke of bridges burned and empty roads ahead. I cleaned up as best I could and slipped back into ambivalent streams of chilling air, watched the sun rise over empty plains and oddly massive buttes. This was a foreign landscape, and I felt detached from it in every conceivable way.

Later that morning, while riding along the Missouri River, I passed through the most sinuously invigorating stretch of road I had yet seen. Though it was an Interstate the highway that followed the course of the river, the way ahead was through deep black canyons and between fantastic pillars of round-shouldered rocks that soared majestically on both sides of the road. The highway was perfect, too; broad sweeping carves invited speed, dared me to push the Wing's limits, but at the same time asked you to slow down and imagine this landscape in all its splendor.

Sitting at a little diner in Wolf Creek I wondered what to do next. I still had several days of vacation left, but the whole exercise was beginning to feel more than a little empty, more than a little futile. I thought again of Mary and Betsy in Waitsburg, then Irish Jennie still in the park, and the contrasts between these three. Now alone inside the contours of recent experience, I tried to re-imagine what had happened to me, and why.

Each encounter was uncharacteristic of me, both were extreme in their departure from the normal trajectory of my life; ultimately, both experiences were becoming more than troubling with each passing mile.

Could it be true, I thought, that the worst pain is self inflicted?

The half-eaten chili-cheeseburger on the plate before me looked to be certain proof of that. I turned, looked, saw the pale blue packets on the counter by the register and smiled.

+++++

Another day, another morning, the ride into Waitsburg under an indifferent and blistering sun; I filled up the Wing and looked down the street at the diner I'd been in just a few days ago, and I thought of Mary. To go back, or not to go back; that seemed to be the question tumbling over and over in my mind. I neither wanted nor needed another sexual escapade of the sort we'd had, but I had felt something in Mary, something real and honest, and suddenly I wanted her voice, needed to hear what she had to say about life -- and love. Leaving the past few days unexamined suddenly seemed not simply obscure and pathetic, but resolutely obscene. With that thought echoing I puttered down the little street and pulled up in front of the empty diner; I could see Mary behind the counter with a cup of coffee and a book, but she looked up when she heard the Wing.

I'll never know why, of course, but she smiled at me and waved, and when I walked in I saw her wipe away a little tear. The feelings that washed over me in that moment rocked me, left me breathless.

"I wondered if you'd come back," she said quietly. I took a stool at the counter.

"Did you?"

"I did. I rather took a fancy to you, you know." She stood, went to get me a Coke and a glass of ice. She looked at me all the while -- as if measuring me, calibrating her response to my sudden reappearance.

She put the drink down, returned to her seat, put a little distance between us. "You've had a bad couple of days, haven't you?"

I nodded my head. "Yes. Do I look that out of it?"

"Well, the dark circles under your eyes are kind of a dead give away. So is the frown, come to think of it." That Australian accent was still light and filled the air with an otherworldly tang, yet her voice felt comfortable, even reassuring. "You look unsettled. What happened?"

"I feel like I've been inside a washing machine. You know what I mean?" I found that sort of honest self appraisal a little disconcerting, and suddenly felt tight inside, completely unsure of myself.

"Yeah," she chuckled, "I do. Pretty unusual state of affairs for you, I take it?"

"Maybe, but probably not in the way you think."

"Oh?"

"Unusual in that I've really had very little experience over the years with women, with relationships I general, so I'm not used to...I guess I was a little unprepared for these kinds of feelings."

"Feelings?"

"Isolation. I feel isolated. Ignorant. Like the world has passed me by; like I don't know about anything outside of my work."

She nodded. "Isn't isolation a matter of choice? It was for me when I decided to stop here. To settle down."

"Oh?"

"Can't run away from yourself, you know."

"Yeah, I've heard the rumor..."

"True, don't you think?"

"Feels that way right now."

"Do you think it's reasonable to dedicate your life to something? Maybe things get lost by doing that, but isn't it worth it in the end?"

"I used to think so."

"Well then. What happened?"

I told her about Jennie. All of it, all I could remember, anyway. She took it all in; didn't appear angry or judgmental at the implications of the affair. She got a little wide-eyed when I told her about being tied-up, and laughed so hard she nearly fell off her stool when I told her about the guy who'd untied me.

"I can just see that! Oh, the poor thing!"

"Yeah. He seemed pretty shook up about it, really. He was from Eastern Europe, I guess, probably summer labor and not at all used to that kind of bullshit."

"How does your bottom half feel?"

"Pardon?"

"Your rear end?"

"Not good. Like a truck drove up there and parked."

We laughed, then she grew serious.

"Well, I wonder. Maybe the woman does that sort of thing for kicks, sort of a serial dominatrix, you know. Thrives off the shock of her victims. You've described a sadist, certainly. But a masochist as well. Complicated, to say the least."

"I don't know what she is, what kind of label to stick on her. She seemed a couple of times like she had been really hurt, damaged, like someone had really messed around with her head just for the fun of it."

"Did you ever feel she was reaching out to you, or that she was just playing you?"

"Not sure, I guess. I think she needed to be in control of things, everything. Like other people's feelings were irrelevant, or if she couldn't control events she made light of them."

We talked a long time. Customers came in and Mary recognized them all; even the Troopers came again, and they waved when the recognized me. Mary took care of them all, it seemed to me, with equal ease, and she would offer a knowing look or caring word to most of these people if they needed it. Maybe it was just a pat on the shoulder or some other little affection that was full of comfort and empathy, but I sensed she was a rare spirit, a truly decent soul who simply did not care to do anything but care for people, all people. I felt a little humble around her, like there was something about her I needed to learn. Some failing within my soul, perhaps. She was like a good medicine; taking her in made me feel better about being alive, about the prospects for humanity as long as there are people like her in the world.

Maybe I had felt like that once upon a time. Somewhere along the way my vision had been clouded by a professional haze. No matter, though. We are what we are.

Eventually Mary and I had the place to ourselves again, and again I helped her clean up the mess. We worked silently, efficiently, like an old couple who had known each other for decades, and the work was comfortable in an oddly reassuring way. And it was reassuring to feel such ease around another person after the past few days.

"I should hire you," she said after we finished and sat at the counter again. "You're a fine dishwasher."

"Thanks. I'll think about it. I could use a change."

"Could you?" She laughed, quietly, knowingly. "Tell me," she said, "what do you think this woman felt when you left her standing there? You said you were outside, by your motorbike? She reached out for you, touched you? Did you say she was crying?"

"I think she was, yes."

"So?"

"So I don't know. Of course it's reasonable to assume, possible, uh... she was sorry for what happened, felt sad... upset... I was leaving."

"But?" She looked at me for the longest while. "You sound confused, Jim."

"Well, here's the rub. I think she might have been feeling sorry for herself, not upset about what she'd done, not in the least, really. I got the impression my feelings were irrelevant, both during and after all this; that anything less than acceptance of what she offered was a flaw on my part."

"She told you it was a gift, right? That it was an experience you should be open to? What about that?"

"I don't know. Feels like a bit of a stretch to me."

"Does it? I wonder? But kind of a dilemma then, isn't it? I mean, maybe she was sincere; maybe she saw the experience as knowledge to be shared, or as an experience of one's sexuality that everyone should have, and she wanted to share that with you. Or she's, as you say, simply a sadist."

"Guess I'll never know. And I . . ."

"There's a third possibility, I think, as well. You said that first night she wanted you to choke her; she wanted you to hurt her, didn't you say? That she deserved to be hurt?"

"Yes. Yes, that bothered me too. But doesn't that tie into the second option, that she's a self-absorbed narcissist."

"Maybe. But I was thinking of something else. Maybe she was trying to manipulate you. Pull you into her game."

"I don't follow."

"Maybe she wanted you to respond to her need that first night, respond by hurting her as she wants or likes to be hurt. Or needs to be hurt. When that didn't happen maybe she decided to give you that kind of experience as a way of turning you on to the dynamic. Then she could have worked on you, gotten you to "experiment" on her; in the end she'd have gotten what she wanted from you."

"Oh, crap."

"Well, like you say, you'll probably never know. Why do you feel it's so important? This one relationship -- this event; why has it taken on such dimension?"

"Good question; I'm not sure."

"Are you questioning your attraction to her, think you should have seen it coming?"

I could only shrug.

"Or do you think you made a mistake?"

I looked away.

"I see," she said.

"I don't think it's that simple."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

She was looking at me; I could feel her eyes burning into me.

"I wonder, Jim. Maybe you enjoyed this gift after all, and perhaps more than you're willing to admit to yourself. Does the idea bother you?"

"Yes."

"Why? I mean, if it's a part of who you are, why should you be ashamed of it?"

"I don't know if it's really so simple. This 'live and let live' thing; that whole gestalt assumes there are no real boundaries, and that is, to me, anyway, the essence of self-centeredness."

"So, there are boundaries, there are limits to what we should experience? Even simply want to experience?"

"Hell yes!"

"Such as?"

"Are you kidding me? Such as? What about pedophilia or necrophilia? There's two right off the top of my head! Want more?"

"What about having sex with two women?"

That hit me. Right in the heart.

She looked away, thought she'd gone too far. "I wish you wouldn't be angry at me, Jim. I just wondered what your take on it was."

"Yeah? What's your take on it?"

"Is that relevant?"

"Yes. Yes it is. And I'm not angry, Goddamnit!"

"Really?" She looked a little amused at that one.

"Yes, really!" I tried to smile but I felt small, like a child.

She looked out the window, at the Wing parked on the street.

"So, where're you headed from here?"

"Home, I guess."

"Well, maybe you ought to get a start on it."

I was a little taken aback by that. "Yeah. Fine." I gathered up my things, left some money on the counter and started to leave.

"Jim?"

I stopped, looked at her.

"When you've figured this out, would you let me know?" Her lower lip trembled, her eyes had begun to fill.

Was that all I could do? Leave women in tears? Care for them, then hurt them and run away? Who was being the narcissist now?

I moved to her, wrapped my arms around her. "I'm sorry."

I looked down at her now; her eyes were red now, her face wet. She reached up with her hand, stroked my face gently.

"Go now. But come back to me. When you're ready, Jim, come back."

I nodded my head. "Right."

+++++

The road home -- backroads to the Interstate. Why does time feel so compressed the closer we come to our journey's end? Are we so ready for the coming of night, for rest at last? Why does everything in those last hours feel so distorted, so out of place? Everywhere I looked I saw stunted things; withered trees and sun-scorched grass, and there was nothing in this landscape now even remotely interesting to me. I wanted the sound of shrill, droning tires to go away, leave me alone; I wanted to be home, to stand in the welcome glow of well-known light, lean back in the soft, round comfort of the familiar.

Jennie had been soft and round. But was she, really?

She had been hard and sharp too, not withered and stunted. What had I missed?

The road droned underneath these thoughts, taunting me, teasing me, ignoring me.

What was the road trying to tell me?

Why couldn't I hear even a simple truth? Had it always been so? Was I looking at the world with open eyes, or had they always been closed to greater truths?

+++++

There were a couple of messages waiting for me at home; a patient at the hospital had made a turn for the worse that morning and the chief resident wanted me to know, so when I got her call could I check in? Some dry cleaning was ready and a book I had ordered was in.

I called in to the ward, asked to speak with the resident.

"Hey, Jim. How's the ride going?"

"It was good. I'm back."

"Oh. Well, about Madeleine Dunn. Her t-cells are shitty, the white count is way off now, too. The LF panel is shot and her vitals are getting crappy."

"So fast?"

"Yeah. Weird."

"Mutation, then. Better prepare a scan and a copy for CDC."

"Jim? She wants to see you. If possible. I know you two have grown pretty close."

"Yeah, I've been her doc for a few years now. Lose track, you know? I'll grab a shower and come on down. Tell her if you get a chance."

"Sure thing."

I walked over to the window and looked out on the city lights and the river beyond. Madeleine was going to be a hard one. Fourteen years old when she had been date-raped by a kid from a local junior college, she had tested positive a year later. Now almost ten years on, despite her long running battles against the virus, she was losing the war. She was a sweet kid, very religious, very forgiving, and now I made a connection between her and Mary. They were cut from that same cloth in a way, and probably in more ways than I could ever know. Something was trying to get through to me... some thought. But what?

I knew only too well that the old song 'only the good die young' was a load of crap; the boy who'd infected her had died two years ago, and I'd done everything I possibly could do to keep him alive, but even so in the end Madeleine was there with him when he passed. There was something almost holy about this girl, and for the record I'm not prone to thinking about existential crap very often. I felt lucky to know her, and I understood my life was better for the experience.

The feeling remained: something was trying to get through to me.

I had missed something. Something big.

+++++

"Hey! It's the Wild Hog!" Madeleine said when I walked into her room.

"Nope. I'm the Chicken Wing."

"What?"

"My bike is a yellow Gold Wing... Chicken Wing... get it?"

"Doc?"

"Yeah?"

"You need to work on your humor, Doc."

"I know, I know. Let's get to work on that. Heard any good jokes?"

"Do blond jokes count?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't they?"

"Well, you're blond!"

"Really? Are you kidding me? I had no idea!"

She laughed. "My mom thinks you're cute."

"Madeleine, she wears glasses four inches thick."

"Are not!"

"Are to!"

"Fooey!"

"Fooey? Did you say fooey? I haven't heard that word since Carter was in office."

"Now who's full of fooey?"

"You got me there. Where do I sign the confession?"

"How was the ride?"

"Long. Got a sore butt."

"Serves you right."

"For?"

"Leaving me."

"Ah."

"Doc?"

"Yeah, Mad?"

"Did you read my chart before you came in?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's pretty bad, isn't it?"

"Could be better, but there are a couple of things I want to try."

"How much time have I got?"

I looked away, didn't want her to see me, see my eyes.

"Doc? No one will tell me anything," she said softly. Her eyes were glassy and red, worn out from too many meds and from worrying nonstop for almost eleven years. "No one will give me a straight answer. It isn't right. Or fair."

"I know, Madeleine. Nothing's been fair, has it?"

"Why do you say that? This was God's life to use as he wanted."

I shrugged my shoulders. "I hope you're right, Mad. I really do."

"But something about all this silence seems sadistic to me, Doc; like all of you are trying to control my feelings, have everything your way. Like all of us are here for your benefit, not the other way around."

"Does it?" I said softly. Her words echoed all over the room, settled somewhere in the vicinity of my gut.

"Yeah, Doc, it does. Sometimes it feels like you guys are more concerned with your own feelings than with mine. Why is so important to control feelings, anyway? Does it always have to be your way?"

"I'm not sure I have an answer for you."

"Know what, Doc, maybe you do. At least I think you do. Just not one you think I want to hear yet."

"How'd you get to be so smart, anyway?"

"From dealing with patronizing assholes like you all my life!"

I looked away, didn't know what to say in the face of her truth.

"I'm sorry, Doc. Real sorry. I am. I didn't mean to say that."

"It's alright, Madeleine. It goes with the territory."

"I know you care, know what this job costs you -- all of you. I don't know how you do it."

"Well, I had a pretty interesting job offer this morning."

"Oh?" She looked worried when she heard that, and that hurt too. She'd panicked when she'd heard I was going on vacation.

"Dishwasher. At a little diner in eastern Washington."

"Hey, a promotion!"

"Yeah. It's been a long time coming."

"She must be something special."

"You know, when I grow up I wanna be just like you."

"Won't happen."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Doc, you aren't ever going to grow up."

We laughed for a long time. Sometimes the truth is funny. So funny it hurts. Especially when it hits you from so many directions at the same time.

+++++

I went back to the nurses' station and flipped through her chart, made some notes and changed a couple of orders, then decided to walk down to my office and go through what promised to be a monumental stack of mail. Although it was getting late the corridors were still pretty busy, the elevator full of anxious parents and distraught kids. I made it to my office and flipped on the light, looked at the huge stack of journals in one box and overflowing correspondence in another.

"Jesus H Christ on a skateboard!"

Knock knock knock: "You say so, Oh Mighty Chief, so it must be so!"

"Hey! Sarah, how are you? Come in. Take a load off."

"Can't, Jim. Got an admit in the E.R., but I saw your door open. How was the ride?"

"Shitty."

"Yeah?"

"Naw. It was fun."

My phone rang. Weird, this time of night. I don't know why but I didn't let the service take it; I picked it up on the second ring.

"Winchenbach," I said.

"Jim?"

At first I couldn't make out the voice, but the accent hit me in the chest like a sledgehammer. Her voice was suddenly, painfully familiar. "Who's calling, please?"