A Few Minutes to Relax

Gwen drove along Route 157, the road curving in and out along the ridgeline of the escarpment, until she came to the start of the Indian Falls trail in Thacher Park. She turned into the lot and parked in back where there were no cars.

That kiss. What was that kiss about. He’d caught her 100 percent off guard, although now that she thought about it, Jude definitely had been flirting with her. Thinking about her since he’d last seen her, he said. Suggesting she come back again for lunch, alone. Asking her to visit him when she returned to town. That was his nature, she knew, and there was nothing wrong with getting a few strokes, as long as she let it pass, which she did, as long as she didn’t stroke back, which she didn’t. But then he kissed her at the end and ruined it all.

Now she wouldn’t be able to visit Jude again, for any reason.

It was just a kiss, one she likely misinterpreted, and she should put behind her, the sooner the better. This was her chance to relax. She had four hours of alone time before retrieving the kids from Marlene’s, and only a few more errands on her list. Jude had included a sheaf of rolling papers in the lunch bag, which also contained a plastic baggie holding four pungent, sticky, egg-sized buds with frosted purple hairs around the edges. Gwen held the bag to her nose and breathed in. Wow. She broke a piece off one of the buds and crumpled it inside the bag, then pinched the loose flakes between her fingers to roll a thin joint she put into a stringed clutch along with her phone. She tucked the bag of remaining buds in the seat pocket behind her. She hung the purse over her shoulder and carried her sweater and found a remote picnic table along the fence near the edge of the cliff. The sun shone but a breeze blew and the air felt a few degrees cooler up here than in the valley.

From the ridge in the park Gwen looked out across the valley, the few taller buildings downtown poking up in the distance like toy blocks stuck in the ground. The sky blazed blue and she could make out the swells of the Adirondack foothills on the northern horizon.

She lit the joint and took a few hits and lay back on the plank top of the picnic table and let the sun warm her face. She closed her eyes. Hummed deep in her throat. Wet her lips. Four days at the lake house, just her and Brian and the kids. Hiking, swimming, canoe rides, fires at night. That’s how she imagined it would be: their family nested and spending every minute together. She and Brian had bought the house when Brian’s company was acquired, his stock tripled in value, and he received a bonus for staying on. But they’d hardly been up there because Brian had been too busy with work, long hours, traveling for days at a time. She thought of this trip as promoting a new lifestyle—less hectic, more simple. Breakfast and dinner as a family. No television. A bottle of wine on the couch with Brian after the kids were in bed, a little pot to relax. A lot of lovemaking. When was the last time they did that. Hugging. There would have to be a lot of hugging and holding, among all of them. Cuddling with the kids. They were still young and delicious and wanted to touch her. Nora would hold hands with her all day. Nate had stopped nursing but still wrapped himself around her, would curl in her arms and press his face against her like a baby.

A few more hours and they’d be going.

Gwen wasn’t a stoner. She didn’t laze around all day with a bong by her side and the TV and stereo both on, too mellow to get off the couch to wash the dishes or get dressed. She didn’t order takeout day after day. She’d known plenty of people who did live like that—mostly when she was in college or working at the Patriot—but even back then Gwen didn’t fit the profile. She would take a puff or two off someone’s joint or pipe and stayed away from other drugs, stuck with wine as her drink of choice unless a bartender knew how to make a good margarita.

She was sixteen the first time she got high, in her junior year, hanging around the park after school with her friends one day, when a joint appeared in someone’s hand. It got passed around and ended up with her boyfriend, Mark, a senior. She watched him take a long deep inhale and hold it, like he knew what he was doing. He offered it, and Gwen took the smallest poke. It came around again and this time she inhaled deeper. The next thing you know she and Mark were goofing around on the kids’ playground, pumping on the swings, playing chase on the jungle gym. It was a cold November day and they had the playground to themselves. Later, before leaving the park, she made out with Mark. The past month they’d been moving closer and closer to doing it, rubbing through their clothes, hands in each other’s pants, and that Saturday night she went to Mark’s house when his parents were out. He’d gotten a big joint for them to smoke. She had sex for the first time and it wasn’t painful or scary like she’d been made to believe but exciting and sensual—maybe quicker than she’d expected, but they did it a few times and she felt happy and full.

A few months later Mark broke up with her because she’d gone with someone else to the movies. He was too proprietary and she didn’t protest much. However, he’d been her source for pot and now she stopped smoking, didn’t think of it again until college when suddenly everyone had it. Gwen got high at parties and on weekends—but not before or instead of classes or as a daily ritual like some of her suitemates did. If she happened to be going out with a guy who liked to get high, she’d join him. She loved to have sex when stoned; it managed to be both soothing and intense at the same time. She had great orgasms.

Brian preferred vodka. Maybe once in a while if he had drunk enough he’d take a hit or two, get paranoid, and shortly thereafter pass out. Therefore, Gwen never encouraged him. He had no objections to Gwen getting high when they were dating, and then living together, and then married, although for the first seven-plus years of marriage she didn’t smoke at all; up until last year she’d been either pregnant or nursing the entire time. When Nate finally weaned—Gwen was the only mother she knew nursing a four-year-old, making her a target for clucks and stares from some of the other Morrissey moms—what remained was a much less intimate routine of shuttling, entertaining, managing school schedules, cleaning up after her kids, and cooking for her family. Chores and errands and bills. She hung out with other moms, volunteered in the PTA, found babysitters on weekends so she and Brian could do more than pass each other coming and going, and overall loved her life and her husband and children and wouldn’t trade any part of it, knowing how lucky she was. And one day when the kids were in school and Brian at work and her to-do list crossed off, she experienced a nostalgic craving while watching the wind blow the empty swings in her backyard. She wondered where she could get a little pot, that would be fun; she didn’t know anyone like that now.

Then she thought of Jude. She had run into him over the winter when downtown with Brian and the kids for Winterfest. They had left the bonfire and jugglers at center square and were walking along Pearl Street toward the river to see the ice sculpting display when Nora announced she had to pee. When Nora needed to pee, you called all hands on deck; it was a state of emergency. A two-minute drill began to find a bathroom; otherwise she’d wet her pants. The nearest place with an open door was a restaurant called Gull, too elite-looking for family dining or kids, but they went in and three of them stood just inside the front door while Nora darted into the bathroom. Wait. Was that Jude Gates standing behind the bar? It was. The same Jude who managed the Patriot when Gwen had worked there, who hung out with her after hours, who shared his joints and poured free drinks. Jude who she had partied with and slept with and almost fell in love with, even though he had a wife in a rehab facility and a young daughter to care for. Long gone days. Young days. Days when she did not consider consequences.

Gwen checked on Nora in the restroom while the boys waited. She hadn’t thought about Jude in a long time. Should she say hello? Would he remember her? Nora finished in the stall; Gwen decided she needed to pee, too. When they came out of the restroom, Jude was looking their way. He walked over and hugged her and shook hands with each of her kids and Brian. I guess he remembered her. And sure, he remembered meeting Brian when Gwen worked at the Patriot. He’d no idea they’d gotten married, or that she still lived in the area. He insisted they stay for a drink. Nora and Nate experienced virgin piña coladas for the first time. Gwen and Brian drank a quick glass of wine. Jude invited them to come back for dinner some night and try the menu of his new chef, Andrew Cole.

She and Brian never went back, but it was Jude she thought of when she wanted to find some weed.

Gwen lit the joint again and took a last hit, then snuffed it out against the table. She had enough time to walk the Indian Falls trail and still finish packing and have the car loaded and kids ready when Brian got home this afternoon.

Then her phone rang. It was Marlene.

“I’m stuck in the waiting room,” Marlene said. “I haven’t been in to see McGuire yet. I hate to do this, but I don’t think I’m going to be on time to pick up the kids. Can you do it and drop them off, then they can spend a few hours with me?”

“Oh, I thought your appointment was at ten.”

“I know, ninety minutes sitting here. It’s probably not worth it.”

“No, I can do it,” Gwen said. She checked her watch. She’d have to leave in a few minutes, first to get Nate, then the girls.

“Sorry to throw this back at you.”

“That’s okay,” Gwen said. “By the way, I got it.”

“You did? What was it like?”

“Pretty easy; he’s just an old friend who did me a favor.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Marlene said.

“I mean, it wasn’t totally comfortable, but …”

“Roger and I don’t know anyone else. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t know where to begin looking.”

“I won’t be able to ask him again, though.”

“Never mind, we’ll worry about that later. We’re flush now and I’m putting the kids to bed early tonight.”

“I’ll bring it by later when I see you.”

“Thanks again, Gwen, for everything. You’re a great friend.”

Gwen took a few breaths to clear her head and focus. She’d have to save the trail walk for another time. She wrapped the remains of the joint in a tissue and zipped the tissue and pack of matches inside an inner pocket in her purse. She put the bag back over her shoulder, returned to her car, checked her teeth in the mirror, and drove back along Route 157, the road a series of wide switchbacks on descent, the sun bright through her windshield. She kept two hands on the wheel and the stereo on scan, hoping for a good song. She rounded a curve and suddenly a car appeared right behind her. She heard the bass of its stereo blaring and the growl of its engine. The driver edged out across the double line as if to pass, then pulled back behind her bumper.

Her heart pushed against her throat, but she maintained course and speed, stayed calm, and held the wheel firmly. She’d been in this situation before, she could handle it.

When the road straightened, the other car pulled out again and accelerated, defying the double yellow line, flashing past, windows dark as night. It cut back into the right lane and braked into the next turn, a long arcing curve with a wide cinder shoulder and a rusted guardrail on the ridge side. She must have been looking far ahead along the curve, to where the car that passed hers had disappeared around the bend and into the shade cast by a stand of roadside trees. It must be going so fast to be gone from view already. And then a new movement in the sunlight brought her focus in closer and another car was there, a different one, oncoming, right in front of her—a heartbeat from head-on.

Gwen wrenched the wheel to the right. The other car struck her rear quarter panel with a shuddering bang, sending her car into a spin. Her body pitched but her seat belt held her in place. She stared out the windshield. She felt motionless, as if the road and the shoulder and the road again and now the trees moved in a slow horizontal pan in front of her while she remained in place clenching a steering wheel that would not respond.

Then the view through the windshield became mottled shades of dark. A flash of sun, shade again. Then another loud bang—and this one hurt.