Wellfleet

Mulak Reader - Wellfleet

I almost sold this one to Esquire magazine. They held it for a long time, intending to fit it in somewhere. Then they changed editors at some level or another, and I soon had my story back. I eventually used it in Brown Feathers.
I still like the conversations that take place in Wellfleet. The story is included in a “textbook” I use to teach my short story class, and is used as an example of the technique of “defining character via conversation.”
People seem to assume that the Robert character is me, so it becomes important to fall back on the writer’s version of pleading the fifth: “All characters portrayed here are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.”

WELLFLEET

"It's a wicked wind and it chills me to the bone,

And if you do not believe me

Come and gaze upon the shadow at your door."

Gordon Lightfoot

          Her moans awoke him. In the darkness he reached out and shook her shoulder. "Wake up, Cynthia—It's just a bad dream."
          She spun around to face him, caught somewhere between nightmare and reality. For a dark moment she didn't recognize him.
          "Hey, you were dreaming. It's me—remember?"
          She sighed in recognition and laid her head against his chest.
          "It's okay, Kiddo," He whispered. "Whatever it was is over and gone. I'm here—it's only me."
          She clung to him tightly. When the fright had evaporated and her breathing had returned to normal, she said "It's not true."
          "What's not?"
          "The 'only' part."
          In the darkness he held her closer.

          The dog followed Robert across the asphalt apron to the edge of the grassy lot, her tail wagging. He whistled to her and motioned "go ahead", then stood waiting with his hands thrust into his pockets against the morning chill. Unhurriedly, the setter sniffed the scent of the previous evening's rabbits and field mice. "Come on, Suzie—Make it quick." he muttered.
          Suddenly, the dog's expression intensified and she moved a few stiff-legged steps into a firm point in front of an old apple tree. Reluctant to believe what he was seeing, Robert glanced back toward the inn, unsure whether he hoped someone was watching or glad no one was. He walked through the knee-high grass to where his dog stood and flushed the little covey of quail she had found. A half-dozen birds darted into the air in random directions, but then formed into a loose flock as they flew together toward the woods beyond the road.
          He stood watching the birds fly off, smiling to himself.

          The door to the room opened before he could get his key into the lock. Cynthia was still barefoot, but had dressed in poplin chinos and a chamois shirt and had pinned her hair up under the cap he had brought for her. She kissed him, then stood for a moment in his embrace.
          "Hi, Kiddo." he said. When she didn't answer, his tone changed. "What's the matter, Cynthia?"
          "Do you feel this lost when you come to the city?" She spoke without lifting her head from his shoulder.
          "Having the toilet down the hall doesn't suit you, I guess."
          "Oh, no." She hurried to deny it. "It's not that: It's lovely here—'quaint', I guess is the right word. I just feel I'm a guest in your private world—I know you're as much a visitor here as I am, but you seem a part of all this."
          He thought for a moment before answering. "Yes, I guess that's the way I feel when we're in the city together: You belong there, and I'm out of my element."
          After a moment, he went to his open suitcase and began gathering the few items they would need for the day's outing. "I almost didn't recognize you when I walked in. You look like a model in an Orvis catalog."
          "This is my 'fashionable huntress' outfit." She knelt to pet the dog. "Hi, Suzie... Oh, you're all wet."
          "It's frosty out there." He answered for his setter.
          After a moment he asked, "What are you going to wear for boots, Cynthia?"
          "I was waiting to see what you'd suggest—I borrowed those..." She indicated a pair of cold weather pacs with felt liners. "...and I've got my old Frys."
          "We're going to be doing quite a bit of walking, so I know you can't wear these." He held up the pacs. "Whatever the others are, they're it."
          Leaning against the bureau, she began to pull on a pair of leather boots that had been designed to weather urban winters in high style. "They're real comfortable." She replied to his skeptical look.
          "Oh, I'm sure they are. But when I said you should bring boots, I was thinking more in terms of L.L.Bean rather than Lord & Taylor."
          "Bonwit-Teller." she corrected.
          He zipped closed the small canvas duffle he had filled and slung a canvas jacket over his arm. In the corner of the room the setter watched Robert. Sensing it was time to go, she went to the door to be let out.
          In the parking lot, he opened the liftback of her sports car and put his cased shotgun and the duffle inside, then let his setter in to sit on floor of the passenger side. Her's was the only car with out-of-state plates, and shared the lot with just his mud-spattered pick-up and a couple of nondescript station wagons, one with the name of the inn lettered on the door. The Supra, sleek and gleaming, seemed so unrelated to the other vehicles that it might have been a rocket ship from outer space.
          Driving out, he slowed and pointed out the stunted apple tree. "Suzie found a little covey of quail by that tree this morning when I took her out."
          "Yes. I saw you from the window."
          He glanced across at her before muttering a disconnected, "Oh." She hadn't made mention of the fact. Her reluctance, at times, to initiate even the most idle conversations held a puzzling fascination for him. Fascination, he thought to himself: a good word. Certainly more accurate than, say, love. He had always lived with quiet personalities all around him, but Cynthia's shyness went beyond the dictionary definition of quiet. She could be clever and quick, but it was her silences that intrigued him—not that he wanted to emulate her, but rather, it was the effortlessness with which she hid her thoughts—something he could never do.

          As Robert opened the door of the coffee shop, the dozen or so obviously local people seated around the counter turned and stared openly at them. The men still wore their hats.
          Robert waved. "Hi. How's everybody this morning?"
          There were nods and scattered mumbles that passed for return greetings as the crowd turned back to their conversations and newspapers. Robert and Cynthia sat at the far end of the counter.
          "How come you do that?" She spoke quietly.
          "What? Talk to strangers?"
          She nodded.
          "It was either that or give 'em the finger. When people stare at me, I just can't ignore them." He shrugged as he spoke.
          A buxom waitress set a pair of empty mugs on the counter in front of them. "Two coffees?"
          "She'll have a hot chocolate, please." He had previously gotten used to answering for both of them when in public. The waitress filled his cup from a pot beneath the counter, then retrieved Cynthia's and padded off heavily toward a suspicious plastic machine that dispensed what passed for hot cocoa.
          Cynthia sat with her elbows together, her hands folded against her mouth. "Ooo, eclairs!" She indicated the display case across from them.
          "Looks like some heavy-duty calories to me." He muttered back.
          "That doesn't bother me: I have this low-sodium diet..." Knowing he was looking at her, she made a little flirting move, licking her lips with the tip of her tongue.
          Robert smiled and squeezed her knee beneath the counter.
          The waitress returned and set the mug in front of Cynthia, then looked at Robert: "And...?"
         "One of those custard-filled things there, and an apple jelly doughnut."
          After they were served she leaned toward him. "Apple? Are you turning into some kind of health nut or something?"
          He grinned, then said in mock disgust, "The things I do for you: doughnuts for breakfast!" He shook his head. "I want you to know that the aromas coming out of the inn’s kitchen this morning nearly did a number on my resolve."
          "Oh, I meant to tell you—That Mrs. Eldridge phoned while you were out with Suzie to see if we were coming down to breakfast."
          "What'd you tell her?"
          "I said no." She paused, remembering. "You know, she said something like 'the bacon is cut extra lean today'—Even after what you said to her yesterday."
          "Oh, don't worry about her. There's a lot of people, especially motherly types like her, that think there's something wrong with you if you don't eat meat. They figure if they can just make it enticing enough they'll cure you of your bad habit." He smiled, then added, "But you know all about that. She probably takes it personally if her guests don't show up for her meals."
          She turned toward him. "Just the same, there's no reason for you to stop eating things you like just because..."
          He stopped her. "We've been through that before." Out of respect for her preferences, he adjusted his own diet whenever he was with her. He left a silence, then said, "How about a bite of your eclair?"

          They drove northward on the back roads, with Robert behind the wheel of her Supra. The morning was gloriously clear, almost like something contrived by a travel agent to demonstrate how lovely this particular part of New England could be in autumn. Robert downshifted, then accelerated out of a tight turn. The road left the scrub pine woods and ran along a stretch of open marshland. He pulled the gearshift back into fourth, then laughed out loud in exhilaration.
          "You drive like you feel - Did you ever notice that?" He looked across at her. "There are those days when you're down and you putter along at 25, but with you here this is definitely a 60-on-the-straightaway sort of day."
          Cynthia's reply was a smile.
          He waited for her to pick up the conversation, but the silence lengthened. Her shy manner could be disconcerting at times when he felt like talking, but he had learned to resist the temptation to read meanings into her silences: Being uncommonly quiet, she just wasn't given to idle chatter. Three years earlier, it had been that trait that had caused him to dislike her upon first meeting: Unexpressive and reserved almost to the point of indifference, she reminded him of a beautiful but untalented actress. And it had seemed that she simply wasn't interested in him. He was, after all, a decade older than her and married, neither fact of which he tried to hide. Only when events brought them together again did he begin to see through the quiet exterior. His initial assessment had been wrong. Cynthia seemed a contradiction: Shyness with a less evident self-assurance. Her intellect became evident the longer he knew her, yet she retained as her most singular trait something that could only be termed girlishness. She was sure enough of her femininity that she sometimes wore men's cologne. And, unlike every other woman Robert had known, she actually looked better with her clothes off. He smiled inwardly, remembering. There are times when strangers hurry toward one another before issues of personality can cloud intimacy and desire, but it seemed he only grew more charmed the more he learned of her. It's a rare man who can turn his back on the best thing he's ever had. Robert couldn't.
          "What are you smiling about, Robert?"
          He took his eyes from the road for a moment. "I was doing that just to get your attention. If that didn't work, the Donald Duck imitations were next."
          Cynthia laughed. "I talk when I've got something to say, unlike somebody else in this car—and I don't mean you, Suzie." She reached down and petted the dog sitting at her feet.
          "I was thinking about a lady I met at a seminar in New York City—back three years ago or so."
          For a long moment she seemed to be listening to her own thoughts. "I had a hard time accepting you at face value at first. That was a bad period in my life—I had just about given up on myself when you came along. You were something I had never seen before: Somebody who I cared about who actually cared about me in return. The situation you were in didn't exactly make things easy for me, you know."
          He nodded, smiling a tight-lipped smile.
          "There have been other people in and out of my life since then. Some things don't change, though. You're still the only man I've ever really loved." She touched his arm as she finished.
          There were three years of anguish and indecisiveness bound up in any reply he might make. He nodded again, but said nothing.

          He turned off the pavement and followed a gravel road for a half-mile. When they passed an open field he slowed and pulled to the side. "This looks like the place," He said after a moment's study, and shut the engine off.
          "You've been here before?"
          "Oh, no. It just looks birdy. There ought to be some quail in here."
          The dog, sitting on the floor at Cynthia's feet, had been sedate until Robert shut off the engine. She immediately sat up, trembling in anticipation of the hunt.
          The odor of a near-by salt marsh hung on the light breeze. He strapped a bell on the dog's collar, then uncased his shotgun and closed the liftback. "This is the gun I was telling you about—Here, have a look..." He held the opened double out to her.
          "It's lovely—the wood is almost like a jewel." She declined to take the shotgun, as he knew she would: She was afraid without being fascinated.
          "The gun's a luxury—no two ways about it—but it's the sort of thing that's real easy to get used to."
          "That's just the way I feel about my car." She glanced back at the Supra. Even parked on the shoulder, it appeared to be fluid motion stopped for an instant in time. "I spent a long time waiting for a car like that; all those years in school without one, then I had that old Volkswagen when I was first in New York." She glanced at him, flirting now. "You remember that car, don't you?"
          "You never heard me complain about that old bug—it got us around, and was pretty good at keeping secrets."
          She smiled the dimpled smile he had come to believe she reserved only for him.
          They walked the edge of the field, following the natural boundary formed by the woodline that curved back toward a little fresh water pond. The dog worked the open cover at a tireless run, her tail a waving flag in the tall grass. There were wild cranberries growing like ground cover along the back of the field, and sumac trees with much of their autumn color already on the ground. The few leaves that remained on the branches glowed almost luminescently crimson in the morning sunlight. They found a small flock of waxwings in some cedar scrub, but no quail. They were back at the car in an hour.
          Cynthia leaned against the car, pulling off the burrs that had stuck to the cuffs of her pants. "So this is hunting." She teased him with mock sarcasm.
          "You know it, Kiddo. It's the most enjoyable thing I can do with my clothes on." He grinned at her. "So far all we've done is take a walk, but we'll find some birds before the morning's out." He looked out over the field they had just been through. "Still, I can't believe there aren't any quail here: it looks like such good cover."
          "What would you have done if we had found some?"
          "What do you mean, 'What would I have done?' What do you think the gun's for? I'd have shot one or two—or at least tried to."
          "Wouldn't you be giving the birds more of a sporting chance if you let them fly first?"
          For a moment, he looked into her face, expecting a sign that she was joking. She wasn't. He left a silence, trying to decide how properly to reply. "Cynthia, I do flush the birds before I shoot at them. Sportsmanship is what bird hunting is all about—Without it, none of this would have much meaning." He became aware of his own body language and sat beside her on the trunk transom.
          She was embarrassed, and said nothing.
          "Look, I'm just beginning to realize that you know next to nothing about all this, but maybe during the next few days I can show you why this hunting business means as much in my life as it does." Taking her hand, he said, "It's important to me that you understand. Be patient, Kiddo."
          She paused before saying, "You too."

          "There's some ducks over there." She pointed out the car window toward a small cove. He slowed to a stop on a wooden bridge across an estuary and studied the distant birds.
          "Those are brant."
          "I thought I was doing pretty well just knowing they're not sea gulls."
          He smiled. "They're little geese that only live on the coast."
          "Do you hunt them?"
          "I used to, but they've closed the season on brant for the last couple of years. Their population is down. Evidently, a blight killed off most of the eelgrass, and they won't eat anything else."
          "They'd rather die than go off their diet? Sounds like my kind of goose."

          Robert slowed his pace when he noticed Cynthia was hurrying to keep up with him. His setter had found a covey along the edge of some scrub oaks five minutes before. He had circled Suzie's point, sacrificing a chance for a shot in order to keep the birds from retreating into the woods. The field where the covey had pitched in was a tangle of low bayberry bushes and plum thickets—difficult walking, but at least there would be a chance for a clear shot when the scattered birds were found. Suzie covered the ground in front of them with her head high, looking back only at the completion of each cast. Even when the brush screened the dog, they followed the setter's course by listening to the bell on her collar.
          "Does Suzie see the birds when she points them?"
          "No. It's a matter of her scenting them with her nose. It's not smelling, but some other sense that humans don't have." Like all his other attempts to explain bird hunting, he was bothered that his explanation had not expressed his idea well. He rephrased the thought. "Hunting dogs are bred for their ability to use their noses, and while there are a lot of other things expected of a bird dog, without that super-refined ability the other things don't matter—they have to find birds." He spoke without taking his eyes from the setter's progress. "Understand that Suzie is the best dog I've ever had... Ever will have, probably."
          "You said you only owned female dogs."
          He nodded. "The only dog I had that didn't turn out well was a male. Bitches tend to be less hardheaded and easier to train."
          "Why do you call them that?"
          Robert looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Bitches?"
          She nodded.
          "It's a proper term." He paused, then added, "I wonder why women are so sensitive about that word?"
          "Probably for the same reason you're sensitive about the word 'ass-hole'."
          He paused a moment, then laughed out loud. With his arm around her shoulders he hugged her to him. "Smart ass." He said, and they giggled together. "You know, I think I like the silent Cynthia much better."
Her ability to make him laugh always crept up on him—He was never quite prepared for it.
          Minutes later, the dog found the first of the singles from the scattered covey. From full stride she skidded into a point that resembled a lawn chair clumsily unfolded, and the abruptness of the stop made Cynthia gasp audibly. Suzie stood transfixed, head low, tail straight up. Somewhere in the thicket in front of her a quail crouched, equally transfixed.
          "Are you watching?"
          She nodded, and Robert stepped toward the dog's point.

          Suzie lay on the floor of the car, snoozing with her head resting on the hump of the transmission. The past hour had been sprinkled with birds and points and feathers floating among the scrub pine. As Robert drove, he whistled the melody of a Jim Crotche song he had heard earlier in the day. He became aware that Cynthia was listening intently and tapered off.
          "It's still true, you know." She said.
          "What is?"
          "That song: 'Once We Were Lovers'. We still are, as far as I'm concerned, even if I don't see you as often as I'd like." She put her hand over his on the gearshift.
          He listened to his own thoughts for a moment. "'Once'. Not so very long ago, but once—as in 'Once upon a time'."
          As was her wont, when she had nothing to say she said nothing.
          After a minute he addressed the silence. "Why haven't you ever asked me for anything?"
          "Like what?"
          "Like leave my wife and live with you."
          A silence hung in the air for a long moment before she answered. "I guess I'm not so sure I'd want that, or that's what you'd want, either. I like things the way they are: we're friends, just like we've always been."
          "Once we were lovers." His voice was flat.
          She made no reply. The silence lengthened.
          "I'm sorry." He said. "I shouldn't play semantical games. I just think I deserve a better answer than that."
          She was slow to reply, and didn't answer his question directly. "You wouldn't leave your wife."
          "I'm glad one of us is sure of that."
          Again she made no reply.
          His grip on the wheel tightened. "What is it that you're so afraid of? Or is it a matter of 'He can't have said no if I've never asked.'?"
          There was an abrupt change in her tone. "What is it? Do you want me to ask you to leave your wife?"
          "No. Only why you haven't."
          "Do you think I like being the 'other woman'? I know your wife—I dream of her, and in my dream I'm the evil one. Everything I know about her has come through you, and the image you've put in my mind is of a loving woman. You've never said, 'My wife doesn't care any more' or 'There's no love in our marriage'. No. You love her, and it shows. I don't doubt that you love me too, but it's her you belong to. I'm no fool, Robert: There's no future for us and there is no good answer to your question, only might-have-beens and apologies."
          They drove on, separated by the charged cloud of their silence. After a long minute he said, "Still in all, you never even asked me. Were you that sure of my answer?" He looked across at her, but her gaze was fixed somewhere beyond him. She turned and looked out the side window, taking her hand from his as she did.

          In a village, he parked the car along the main street. From across the square, the town clock chimed five times. With a questioning look Cynthia reached across and pushed his sleeve up to read his watch.
          "Ships' time." he answered. "How about if we have lunch here?" He indicated a restaurant across the street.
          She nodded, then removed her cap, shaking her head as she did so that her hair fell loosely into place.
          On the rooftops and in the nearly bare branches of the few trees on the common, a flock of crows patrolled, calling to each other or perhaps just at the world in general. As Robert and Cynthia crossed the street something out on the marsh caught the crows' attention and they took wing as if answering to a roll, swooping from their stations one after another until finally only their distant calls remained.
          Inside, the hostess seated them in an unexpectedly airy dining area that had been glassed in to enclose a small arboretum. Sunlight dappled the tile floor and the dooryard outside. After the waitress had taken their bar order, Cynthia sat staring at the potted flowers beyond the table.
          "Hmm." he said. "This is very nice: Not a damn antique in sight... Very 'off-Cape'." There was a forced lightness to his manner that only outlined the awkwardness of the moment. She looked directly at him and started to say something, then changed her mind. Instead, she reached across the table and touched his face.
          He looked down. "I didn't intend to start an argument back there. Really."
          "I never would have known." The sarcasm in her voice was gentle. She smiled and took his hand.
          "I'm sorry." He felt silly. Then, to change the subject, he asked, "How are your feet holding up in those boots?"
          "Okay."
          "After the walking we've done, you can see that you never would have made it in those heavy pacs. They're more for things like ice fishing or..."
          She touched his lips to stop him. After a moment, she said, "Sometimes we make our greatest demands of others by asking of them nothing at all."
          He looked at her across the table, not sure of her meaning. Unblinking, she returned his gaze.
          "What's that?" he asked.
          "The answer you asked me for."
          Robert mulled over her sentiments in an unsettled silence as they waited for the waitress to bring their drinks. He had no reply.

          As they approached the inn, one of the old station wagons was in the driveway, waiting to turn out to the left. In the wagon, Mrs. Eldridge rolled down the car window, and he stopped along side her car as he pulled in.
          "Did you find many birds?" She looked past Cynthia to speak to Robert through the open windows. She pronounced 'birds' with a broad 'a'.
          "Two coveys." Robert answered.
          "I hope you brought some back with you."
          He nodded. "Five."
          "Well, that'll be enough for the two of you. Just leave them on the porch there and I'll take care of them. I've a lovely quail recipe with cranberry stuffing: If you don't mind eating just a bit late, I'll fix them for your dinner..." She paused a moment, considering. "That is, if it's all right with you." She looked at Cynthia.
          "Yes, I'd like that very much." Cynthia replied.
          Mrs. Eldridge tooted a short good-by on the horn as the station wagon drove off. He parked the car, then looked at Cynthia for a long moment before speaking.
"Why did you tell her that?"
          Cynthia busied herself gathering their gear from the car. "Oh, you know I eat fish, and sometimes chicken. It's no big deal."
          "You know it is." When she made no reply, he said, "I realize how squeamish you can be about these things: You don't have to do this for me. Sure, I've asked you to try to understand why hunting means so much in my life, and it's been evident all afternoon that you're trying to see it through my eyes. But if you're really going to have those quail for supper, I want it to be for the right reasons—because you want to, not because you think I've asked you to. Don't you see?"
          He searched inside her eyes for a glimpse of understanding, but the answer he found there was not addressed to his question.
          She said quietly, "Don't you?"

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This site was last updated 09/22/06