Peter Wolfson slapped at something on his neck. It was too cold for bugs to be out but he swore they were gnawing at him anyway.
Nature was so vile. Give him a studio gig any day, especially when one had to pee. Peter hated doing it outdoors like some day laborer. He would have held it if he could but, at his age, the old plumbing wasn’t exactly working properly. He would see his doctor as soon as he got home. Until then, one of these trees would be given the honor of bearing witness to his toilette.
Heaving a deep sigh, Peter looked down the road on the off chance he would see Mr. Reilly heading his way earlier than they planned. If Reilly was having the same trouble getting these yokels to cooperate, he might come searching for Peter. Sadly, the road remained empty. Peter put his big camera bag beside it as a flag in case the shy Mr. Reilly was about. After that, he went in search of a sufficiently private place in which to do his business.
He was twenty-yards in when he stopped behind a particularly large trunked tree and unzipped his pants. Trying to relax, trying not to notice how the cold had shriveled him – for certainly it was the cold that played this cruel joke – his mind wandered to the morning’s work. He was actually satisfied with much of what he had. They were all rather mundane shots but every one necessary for a story like this.
He had pictures of the roads Tessa drove, the forest that she had called home for these last few years. He had taken background photos of quaint cabins and rough people. He would have snapped wildlife if he had seen any. He would have shot a river if he’d found one. . .
Ah, it was coming. Peter’s shoulders sagged in relief. As the golden shower began he heard something else. He heard a footfall behind him.
“Just in time for the show, Reilly,” Peter quipped only to see that it wasn’t Reilly at all who had found him peeing in the forest.
“I didn’t sleep with Simon.”
“You loved him, ya?”
“I thought I did. When I was a girl.”
“Girls hope for love.” Marta sighs at the futility of that.
“Yes,” I say, wondering if she was ever such a girl
“Did you get it? Love?” Marta asked.
“Yes, but not from him”
This is the truth. Jake gave me love. I almost threw it away. I’m glad I didn’t.
“Were you cruel to the man who loved you?”
I think about this as we snap beans. They pop and I drop them into a pot of water. The answer to her question is no. I didn’t use Jake’s love against him. I curled into him at night. I pushed his hair back when I passed his chair. I put an extra log on the fire when he was cold. In New York we were equals. Famous, each in our own way. People wanted things from us and we went home with each other wanting so little of them.
I wanted to tell Jake I had seen Simon. I didn’t. I didn’t ever want to hurt him but I probably did one way or another. I wanted to tell Charlotte that I wasn’t having an affair but if I did that then I would have to tell her that Simon was her father. Deep inside I knew that would hurt Jake because she loved him better than me. It would change things between them.
“No, I wasn’t cruel to the one who loved me. I protected him.” I snap a bean. Into the pot it goes. There are a thousand of them. I don’t know how we will eat them all.
“What about your daughter?”
“I did my best. I never told her about Simon or about being raped or about my mother. I let Jake have her. That was the best thing I did.” Another bean snaps. “Will I be able to go home soon?”
“You can walk?” Marta raises an eyebrow.
“Yes,” I say.
“I’ll take you to the road. Tomorrow. There might be a storm.”
“Either way, I’m going tomorrow.”
“Yah. You will go tomorrow. It’s time.”
It is settled. I reach for another bean. I am smiling.