Ruth had been taught as a child that a church was not a building, that a church was people. Likewise, a household was people, just as the Streamliner Diner had been people. Thus, when Judith and Alexandra sold the restaurant in ’87, though the new owners kept the name and largely maintained the same standard of culinary excellence, the people who’d accounted for the Streamliner Diner’s singular appeal scattered, seemingly all at once: Judith moved to Kingston and opened a hotel; Heidi moved back to Montana; Gabby and Jewel both moved to the city; Mary Beth and her husband fled south to Ashland, Oregon; Kiki moved to Eugene to finish grad school, Barb north to Canada; and Tiana relocated to Todos Santos to start a gallery with her new boyfriend, and that was the last of her. Gone, nearly every one of those women who had accounted for the diner’s distinctive spirit, on to their next adventures, some thrilling new chapter in their lives. Gone with them were those lively conversations upon which Ruth had come to depend, those breathless philosophical interrogations and muddy walks that had sustained her through her midlife bewilderment, those vital connections that had helped to reshape her flagging self-image. Gone, all of it.
Ruth found herself back on the farm with an empty nest and little occupation to fill the hole left by the sudden conclusion of the diner renaissance. Abruptly, she stopped journaling or writing verse, as her appetite for poetry, like all the rest of her appetites, flagged. There was, of course, the Seabold Methodist Church, reliable as the tides, unconditionally supportive, though short on adventure. There was also Ruth’s enduring friendship with Bess Delory. God bless Bess, steadfast, dependable, convivial, kind, though hardly the personification of the erudition and curiosity Ruth had enjoyed with the diner women. And then there was Abe, also dependable, also steadfast, intelligent in many ways, though not intellectually companionable in the way of Tiana, or Judith, or Mary Beth.
In the absence of diner culture, the onus rested squarely on Ruth to address these deficits. She might have started a book club, or volunteered at the historical society, or dabbled in adult education at Seattle Central Community College. Instead, she gave in to the familiar condition of stable despair, gradually defaulting to her former self. It was only a matter of months before the flowing skirts had found their way to the back of the closet, replaced by the frumpy jeans befitting a woman who’d recently received her second free AARP tote bag.
Finally sensing Ruth’s months-long gloominess, perhaps, or more likely fresh off a lucrative day in the insurance trade, which accounted for the bulk of his good moods, Abe shocked Ruth one Friday evening with a dinner invitation.
“What say we go out tonight, grab a bite? No kids, no finicky teenagers, what’s to stop us?”
While Ruth initially greeted the idea with a cautious enthusiasm, grumpiness soon set in as she tried to find something appropriate to wear. She hated her wardrobe, most of which hardly fit anymore or hadn’t aged well. She finally settled on one of her old diner blouses, a taupe and turquoise affair with a Southwestern motif, a hand-me-down from Judith that no longer suited Ruth, with its boxy shoulders and its wide neckline. She hated how her body was changing, too, how that pooch around the middle she’d so effectively staved off through four children was now insistent at her waistline, drooping over like a fold of pizza dough.
“Haven’t seen that one in a while,” Abe observed when she emerged from the bedroom dressed for dinner.
Though the comment was clearly innocuous, it annoyed Ruth nonetheless. For it seemed to Ruth that Abe had not seen her for years, regardless of her wardrobe. She could have dyed her hair purple, and he wouldn’t have noticed.
Ruth’s irritability continued to ramp up throughout the car ride to town. Between Abe’s inane attempts at conversation and her general nerve-worn state of anxiety, itself inexplicable, it was all Ruth could do to stop herself from snapping at Abe’s insipid running commentary.
“Look at this rain, wonder if it’ll clear up. Lookie there, the Coles finally replaced their garage door, it’s a wonder nobody stole their lawn mower all those years. Say, is that Darrel Rapada’s old coupe?”
To make matters worse, without a reservation there was a twenty-minute wait in the drafty foyer of the Saltwater Cafe. Abe, not the world’s most forbearing personage when it came to waiting, managed to occupy himself with a serendipitously discarded copy of the Sun’s regional section, as Ruth impatiently surveyed the dining area, struck by the cheap artifice of the place, a dressed-up fish-and-chips joint with cloth napkins and smoked glass mirrors. Even the clientele was discouraging. Not a familiar face. Everybody so normal, so safe, so devoid of character. Who were these people, Californians? It used to be that islanders had a distinct character, even if you couldn’t put your finger on it.
“Finally,” she muttered when the host arrived to seat them.
“Relax,” said Abe. “It’s Friday night.”
But Ruth couldn’t seem to relax, no matter how hard she tried to talk herself into it. Whatever had gotten under her skin was hot and prickly now and wanting to be scratched like a rash.
As if a night on the town was not novel enough, they ordered cocktails, Ruth a Manhattan and Abe a Sazerac. Neither of them had ever been a drinker, not even at college. Abe, of course, was moderate in all things, while Ruth had never much trusted alcohol beyond a half glass of wine, never liked that the more she drank, the less dominion she exercised over her thoughts and the less control she seemed to have over her actions. Still, there had been the occasional eggnog or wine during the holidays, the cold beer at a summer barbecue, the wedding toast, and other customary occasions that called for alcohol.
The first sip of her Manhattan seemed to take Ruth’s edge off immediately, but halfway through her drink the alcohol began to dull her senses, until she was beset once again by moodiness. It didn’t help that the salmon was poached to a rubbery beige, the butter separated, fine little bones ribbing the filet. The oversteamed vegetables—carrots and broccoli and crumbling cauliflower—were the stuff of Ruth’s unhappy childhood. The “potatoes” were in fact oversalted French fries, limp and oily as wet salamander and raw in the middle.
Abe didn’t seem to mind his bowl of chowder, despite the thick film on top.
“Fair,” he said. “Too much pepper, but not bad.”
And there was Abe in a nutshell, it seemed to Ruth. Fair. Not bad. Bland, and white, and tasteless as a bowl of chowder. Never enough pepper.
“It looks like a bowl of mortar,” Ruth said.
She could feel her syllables rounding at the edges as her words began running together. What exactly he had done to arouse her contempt didn’t matter. Her anger had been simmering for months. The fact was, tonight he was actually making an effort for once. He’d been sweet to suggest a night out. It was hardly Abe’s fault if the Saltwater Cafe wasn’t La Tour d’Argent, or even the Martinique. Still, going out to dine at all had been a nice gesture. He even wore a bow tie. So, why did she want to lash out at Abe? Was it because it took him so damn long to make the effort? Was it because he’d been forever stunting her growth with his staid and steady presence? Or was it simply the bow tie, that enduring symbol of his conservatism? The way he sat too upright, the way he chewed, the way he went to his napkin after every bite, even his order, clam chowder and a side of chips, so pedestrian, so obvious, like a tourist wherever he went. There was no end to Abe’s irritating qualities.
“Well, sold a homeowner’s policy to your church friend Jan Heron this afternoon,” he said, wiping the edge of his mouth daintily.
“Of course you did,” said Ruth.
“No-brainer,” he said. “Farmers upped their premium after that fir fell on their garage last month. They were paying out the nose for detached structure, boilerplate coverage. I was able to get her a lower quote and fifteen hundred dollars in additional coverage.”
“How thoughtful of you,” said Ruth.
Abe searched her face for an explanation as Ruth glared defiantly back at him.
“What’s gotten into you tonight?” said Abe. “Bad day?”
“They’re all bad,” said Ruth.
“Is this the hormones again?”
Though he’d said it delicately enough that it was not intended as an accusation, Ruth could hear the exasperation in his tone, as though he was thinking: Oh, boy, here we go again.
“It’s always the hormones, isn’t it, Abe?” said Ruth, loud enough to draw the attention of the neighboring table. “If it’s female, it must be hormones.”
He tried to silence her with a meaningful glare, a look that said to Ruth: Don’t embarrass me. I have a reputation to uphold.
“Hormones, hormones, always the hormones,” Ruth said. “It was hormones with Karen, too, remember? Locked herself in her room, hormones. Ran away, hormones. Killed herself, hormones.”
As ever, ready to nip this or any conflict in the bud, Abe shifted directly into damage control mode, setting his napkin on the table and waving for the check, before withdrawing to the restroom to avoid further engagement. Decisively passive in Abe fashion.
Ruth remained at the table, stewing as she followed Abe’s lanky progress across the dining room, annoyed with his jerky gait, his narrow shoulders, his mindful posture, disgusted at the fact that he was incapable of confrontation.
“Ech,” she muttered under her breath as she watched him disappear into the corridor, before dispensing with the last of her Manhattan in a single gulp.
The alcohol was sitting like a weighted blanket on her shoulders by the time Abe returned from the bathroom, evading her eyes.
“What are you so afraid of?” she said, loud enough to silence the dining room.
But Abe did not take the bait.
“Don’t forget your purse,” he said gruffly as he left a hundred-dollar bill on the table.
Ruth’s thoughts were leaden as she stood to leave, Abe already ten paces in front of her, his good posture beginning to fail him under the weight of the unpleasantness.
The drive home was eerily silent, Ruth glowering out the side window and Abe gripping the wheel until his knuckles were white. When he pulled up in front of the house, Abe got out of the car and walked straight up the steps without opening her door as he had as a matter of custom since 1953. Ruth sat in the passenger seat for a moment, her mouth dry, her thoughts a dull irritant. After considerable groping in the darkness, Ruth located her purse by her feet, pushed the door open, then nearly slipped climbing out of the car.
Abe was already in his chair with the remote in his hand, agitation working on the lines of his forehead, as he watched the late news. He didn’t even look at her when she came in and walked straight to the kitchen, where she began immediately to scour the cupboard for alcohol. She found nothing beyond a half bottle of dry vermouth and an open jug of Carlo Rossi sangria from two Thanksgivings ago. She poured out an unreasonably tall glass, splashing the countertop and resisting the impulse to wipe it up. Instead, she left the puddle of wine there like a challenge. Chances were, Abe would walk right by it five times before she cleaned it up in the morning.
Though she had no desire to be around Abe, the living room was as much hers as it was his, so she took her place in the chair opposite Abe with her glass of wine and settled into a sullen silence. After a moment, Abe took a lame stab at diplomacy.
“I’m sorry about the hormones comment,” he said, looking straight ahead at the Schick commercial on TV. “You weren’t acting like yourself.”
But Ruth wasn’t having it.
“And who is that, Abe? How exactly do you presume to know me?”
Though Ruth was making a concerted effort to enunciate her words, it wasn’t quite working.
“The damn mailman knows me better than you do,” she said.
“That’s not even remotely true,” he said.
“Try living with you,” she said.
“You know, it’s not like you’re a joy to live with,” he said, raising his voice for the first time. “It used to be things were good enough around here, or so I thought. We’ve built a pretty nice life. And when I say ‘we,’ I mean mostly I have. I’m the one who bought this farm, I’m the one who accounted for all the food on the table. I’m the one that bankrolled all your improvements, your raised beds, and your greenhouses, and your marble countertops.”
“Pff,” said Ruth. “Hail the great man.”
“Well, he’s served you well enough, hasn’t he?” shouted Abe. “He may not be Julius Caesar, but he’s worked his butt off for thirty-five years so you could have all this. So you could grow your flowers and read your poetry.”
“Ha! Is that what I was doing?”
“When you weren’t kissing gardeners and lesbians!”
“I was raising children and cleaning house!”
Even in her deteriorating state of stupefaction, Ruth wondered once again what had possessed her to air these old grievances now. But still, she couldn’t resist the reckless impulse.
“Healthy children,” said Abe. “Well-fed children, educated children. And a pretty nice house, too, I might add. And acreage for all your projects!”
“There you go again,” said Ruth, straight out of the Ronald Reagan playbook.
“My God, when was the last time you were happy, Ruthie? When you were kissing that Tiana woman by the dumpster?”
“At least she had a soul,” said Ruth.
“Is that what those tattoos on her arms were?” said Abe. “Her soul?”
“You wish you had guts,” said Ruth. “You walk around convincing yourself you have guts, but you don’t.”
Even when she said it, Ruth knew the statement was out of left field and she was only lashing out like a sick cat.
“Well, I guess I don’t know what you mean by guts.”
“Of course you don’t,” said Ruth. “You wouldn’t know it if it kicked you in the balls!”
Here, Abe shook his head grimly, then ran his hands over his drawn face and drew a deep breath.
“Okay,” he said, releasing the breath. “I don’t know what any of this is about, but I’m sorry.”
“Don’t bother,” she said.
The minute she heard Abe pulling up the driveway, the euphoria of conflict gave way to a wave of remorse that crashed upon Ruth, even as she took one last slug of Carlo Rossi.
Abe checked into the Evergreen Motel in Poulsbo around ten thirty p.m. without so much as his spit kit in his possession. Even in his state of emotional befuddlement, he was peeved to find that his AAA card wasn’t in his wallet. Maddie had probably taken it to college without telling him, probably Ruth’s idea, though Abe would have insisted she take it himself had he thought of it. The point was, at least he’d have known about it and ordered a duplicate.
“Can you take my word for it?” he asked the clerk, a kid in his twenties.
“Sorry, we need a number.”
Abe sighed. The whole country was going to hell. It used to be a man’s word was enough. He sure as heck wasn’t about to call Ruth for the number, though it would have saved him nearly ten bucks.
Squalid might have been an improvement for Room 213, which was perfectly forlorn in its shabby neatness and a decade outdated with its green shag carpet and burnt orange bedspread. The folded hand towel at the edge of the basin, the fake wool throw blanket at the foot of the bead, the ceramic cup of potpourri on the dresser—these paltry touches of hominess only made the room worse.
Abe’s hand was still shaking as he dropped the car keys on the nightstand. How had the night gone so wrong? The evening had begun hopefully. Abe was confident that he’d come home imbued with the requisite energy to lift Ruth’s spirits, or at least distract her from the perpetual funk she’d been wallowing in for, what, three months, now? Years, really, if you accounted for all the other funks. This was more than one bad night fueled by alcohol, this was the culmination of years of repression, decades even, of bitterness, resentment, jealousy, outrage, all of it simmering until tonight, when it finally boiled to the surface.
As inflamed as he was by Ruth’s assault on his character, Abe was dogged by the suspicion that he’d had it coming somehow. Certainly, he’d lost his cool, and he was not proud of that. The thought occurred to him that maybe he should call Ruth after all and apologize, or at least let her know he’d checked into the Evergreen for the night. But that part of him still incensed by her behavior vetoed any such diplomacy. She’d caused this—let her worry.
Abe slept on top of the covers in his slacks and socks, if you could call it sleep. His general agitation conspired with the bright lights from the parking lot and the traffic on 305 to keep him awake most of the night. By morning, he had talked himself into swallowing his pride and putting the previous night behind him. People said things in anger, it came with the territory of marriage. It behooved Abe to be what he viewed as the bigger person in this instance. He almost stopped at Central Market for flowers, but he wasn’t quite ready to go to those lengths. Instead, he returned to the farm empty-handed, a practiced apology on his lips, where he found Ruth on the sofa with an ice pack on her head. He was about to humbly offer his penitence and ask for his wife’s forgiveness when she beat him to the punch.
“Don’t you have something to say to me?” she said.
Abe’s emotional turnabout was absolute and instantaneous. “Me?” he said, incredulous. “My God, you’re the one who…you can’t be serious.”
Ruth’s grim expression answered that question immediately.
“Oh, this takes the cake,” Abe said. “Unbelievable.”
Huffing and puffing, he strode past her and down the hallway to the bedroom, where he yanked a clean shirt and pair of slacks out of the closet and changed his clothes angrily, muttering his misgivings. He didn’t bother shaving, though he was showing the better part of two days’ growth. He briefly considered packing a spit kit and searching the desk drawer for the AAA card on his way out the door, but he was in too much of a hurry to escape.
Abe was halfway out the front door, striding past the kitchen, when he discovered Ruth hunched there at the table, sobbing inconsolably into her hands.
Immediately, his emotional pendulum swung back to repentant as he leaned down to comfort her.
“Oh, Ruthie, I’m sorry,” he said.
She choked back a sob and looked up into his face. “No,” she said. “It was me. I’m sorry.”
Abe motioned for Ruth to stand, and when she got to her feet, he wrapped her in an embrace, his confused heart still drumming three measures ahead of the beat.