WHERE THE WIND BLOWS

He walked through the door looking almost like he used to look. I only noticed a touch of gray on his moustache. His smile was contagious. I grinned and must have looked like a Mama Baboon who has just nursed her baby. My heart beat fast. Questions exploded from my lips. ‘What are you doing here? Where did you go? How are you? What brings you to Campfield again?’ As soon as I paused to breathe, Siggie answered ass-backward. ‘Remembering, caring about you could be denied no longer. You bring me back to Campfield. I am fine, healthy and happy. I went to Borneo, Bora Bora and New Guinea. Now my exploring days are over and I am here only because you are. How about shutting up for a few minutes. Don’t you want to be hugged, squeezed, kissed with fervor?’

As wonderful as that sounded, I did not jump at the offer. ‘Not so fast, Gulliver. Haven’t those places entered the 21st century? Are there no email stations, no pens, no paper, no postage stamps? How could you just pack your bags and leave me without a word of where you were going, why and when you’d come back? How could you be so cruel? So, back off, Siggie. I’m not a door mat for you. Just because I loved you doesn’t mean I still do. Go to a hotel or go sleep in the zoo where you’ll be right at home with the smells.’ I open the front door for him but he stands still. ‘I’m serious. Get out!’ He goes and I watch him walk down my driveway, enter a less than new car that looks like a rental. Unbidden tears form a stream down my chin.

I manage to keep busy, read, watch t.v., meet Millie for lunch so I can get some help, some relief for my quandary, while barely standing the silence of my phone. Normal calls annoy me. I cut off my friends too abruptly, bang the phone down rudely on all pitchmen. Millie at least listens to me, understands the unhappy, fearful year that has past but makes no suggestion as to what I should do. We finish our coffee and end the conversation. She drives me home.

As soon as she pulls into the curb, I see a note on my front door, jump out of her car and barely say so long to her as I fly to see what awaits me. It isn’t a note. It is a large manilla envelope held to the door with duct tape. Removing the tape also removes some of the door shellac. I fume, take it inside and curse Siggie. The envelope is fodder for National Geographic, beautiful, professional looking shots of jungles, naked blacks, snakes, waterfalls, wildly painted faces. The last picture stops me cold. It is of me in my wedding gown with Siggie beside me in his tux. I put everything back in order and close the envelope with the little metal clasp.

Somehow I am plastered to my kitchen chair, don’t want to get up. My mind is a Mixmaster, churning the good, the bad, the love, the anger into one big bowl of crap, of indecision. Had I felt the way Siggie did, could I have left him without discussing the future? I don’t know. Maybe. Had he told me and I told him to go to Borneo, wouldn’t I have still been angry? Damn right! I don’t know. I don’t know what I would have done with just a little consideration given to me. I don’t know what might have been but do know now.

My phone rings. It’s Siggie, I’m sure. He says, ‘Hello, My love.’ I reply, ‘Goodbye, Siggie,’ and hang up.