I turn to look at Paul’s house a last time. The door is closed, but my mind flickers with memories of when his warm smile greeted me there. I’d arrive at this doorstep, heavy with weariness from the work week and the four-hour flight, and like sunlight from behind a passing cloud, his welcome would wash over me.
“Ma’am, your bag?” The taxicab driver’s request is a harsh return to reality. This round man with two-day stubble on his face shows no inclination for pleasantries.
“Oh, yes.” I release my suitcase to him. It’s heavier than it looks, and he almost drops the bag, filled to the brim with mementos gathered from the months I was in and out of Paul's house -- the jacket I left behind on that weekend winter decided to peek again from behind spring’s colorful skirt. And the slippers he bought me and secretly laid on my side of the bed, his symbol to me that his home was mine. Even the books I brought to read, but somehow never started.
The driver opens the taxi door, and waits, impatience personified. But the house and its memories tug at me. My heart is pulled through my tightening throat in its desire to stay, and my breath catches with each step toward the taxi. Finally I force myself to get into the cab. The driver smiles as though victorious, but he is not the victor in my emotional tug-of-war. It is the painful recollection of the message in a bottle that drives me to get in.
When the cabby shuts the door, the smell of honeysuckle from the dashboard’s air freshener permeates the cab and nauseates me, a futile attempt to cover the scent of cigarettes and body odor.
Baggy eyes stare at me from the rearview mirror.
“Where to?”
“The airport. American Airlines’ terminal, please.”
We pull out of the driveway and it begins to rain. Watching the water drops drift down my window, they become a trickling fountain in my mind, taking me back to Paul’s backyard, where we used to gather for our after dinner tęte-ŕ-tętes. He’d hold a brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other, sitting with his legs crossed in their relaxed, lanky way. I’d sip my Chardonnay and savor the smell of his cigar, letting the sound of the fountain wash my cares down an imaginary stream.
But the sight of his brandy would once again trigger my mental count of his drinks that day. A pitcher of martinis at lunch. Half a six-pack of beer while mowing the lawn. A couple of glasses of wine at dinner. And now, a brandy before bedtime. It was the pattern of our days together.
His drinking had become like a splinter under my skin, at first easy to overlook. But the sting at times was difficult to ignore – times when he’d try to drive after too many drinks. Or when he couldn’t remember events from the night before. When he was zombie-like before his first drink of the day, quiet and sullen, it was not the Paul I knew.
I sometimes couldn’t help waiting for him to take that first drink to become the
happy-go-lucky man I’d come to know.
“This traffic’s getting kind of heavy. What time’s your flight?”
The cabby’s words startle me. “Not for a couple of hours. I’ve got plenty of time.”
Plenty of time. Too much time now, I fear. The months of trading weekends with Paul, alternating between his home in Boston and mine in San Francisco, filled my life with anticipation of blissful reunion. The pattern made confronting his drinking too easy to put off.
But the splinter began to fester. It throbbed in me constantly, and its infection spread.
Two weeks ago, as we prepared to leave for dinner, I could hold my thoughts no longer. I knew he’d had too much to drink to be driving.
“Paul.” I waited for a response. It didn’t come. “Paul, let me drive.”
He looked surprised. “What? Why do you want to drive?”
“I think you’ve had too much to drink. As a matter of fact…I think…you often drink too much.” I’d leapt from the cliff that had loomed in front of me for months.
His face reflected this was not a conversation he wanted to have. “What are you talking about?”
My heart pounded in my head. Although I’d been over it in my mind countless times, I wasn’t sure now how to proceed.
“You drink too much, Paul.”
His eyes avoided mine, but my relief that the subject had been broached overcame my intimidation, and adrenaline shot through me, bringing a flood of words too long held inside.
“You drink too much, but I’ve tried to ignore it. I love you, Paul, but your drinking is affecting our relationship. I think – "
He interrupted. “I’m in complete control when I drink. What are you talking about?”
I’d never seen that look his eyes before – angry, defensive, betrayed – at once telling me I didn’t know him, and he didn’t know me.
“Listen to me,” he said through pursed lips, eyes piercing through me. “I’ve done fine on my own. Without you. I don’t need someone in my life telling me I drink too much.” He turned away from me.
When he slammed the door, my heart held an emptiness as huge as the ringing silence of the vacant house.
“Here we are. American Airlines terminal.” The cab comes to an abrupt stop. “That’ll be thirty-five dollars.”
I pay the driver, take my bag, and maneuver through the scurrying, stone-faced crowd. At the ticket counter, the representative is robot-like, impersonal while she clicks the keys on her keyboard. She prints my boarding passes, stamps them, and asks for my identification.
After a quick glance she says, “You’ll be boarding from Gate H14 at 3:50.”
I walk to the gate, anxious to board the plane, and wonder how Paul will react when he arrives home to find my things gone. The chattering around me fades to a buzzing in my ear. The world around me carries on while I drift into my thoughts once again.
Before leaving his house this morning, I sat at the dining room table, scribbling words to say good-bye. I looked around the room, remembering bits and pieces of the time I’d spent with this man I never really knew. A near-empty wine bottle sat alone in the middle of the table.
I knew then what to write.
PRIMARY ENDING 1:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are ready to begin boarding Flight 358 for San Francisco.” The tinny announcement jolts me away from my thoughts of this morning, and I prepare to board the plane. Once seated, I close my eyes and hope for sleep, knowing he will soon find the message I left him – the message in the bottle:
She is gone. Together, we sent her away, and now she
knows I am the only one you need. My seduction is
complete, and I will be yours as long as you’ll have
me.
Always,
Alcohol
ALTERNATE ENDING 2:
My hands shake as I scribble words on a tattered piece of paper:
I once again find myself drifting alone in a sea that
will swallow me. And though I’ve cast out many of
these bottles I emptied to quench my thirst, I am
still thirsty.
If you find this message, I need your help.
Paul
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are ready to begin boarding Flight 358 for San Francisco.” The tinny announcement jolts me away from my thoughts of this morning.
I remove my Blackberry from my purse to e-mail the other half of my message to Paul:
Date: Monday, 9 Jun 2007 15:20:40 (EDT)
Subject: Message in the Bottle
From: Tara Leake
To: Paul Harrison
Paul,
I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye, but I’m not ready to
say it. The message you will find in the bottle on
your table is what I hear your heart say to me, yet I
know it must come from you.
If this message should cross my path one day, I will
return to you in Boston. If not, then it will be you
who has said good-bye to me.
With love,
Tara
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