The Wildwater Walking Club Read online

  I forced myself to walk naked into my bedroom and stand in front of the full-length mirror on the inside of my closet door. Whoa. I closed my eyes and shut the closet door fast.

  How did it start, this downward spiral? At what point did I lose myself to sixty-hour work weeks, slovenly behavior, and really crappy taste in men? It wasn’t the kind of thing that happened all at once. It crept up gradually: deadline upon deadline, one takeout meal at a time. Factor in a dating pool shrunk not just by the demographics of age, but also by lack of contact with the world outside Balancing Act.

  And then one day, I awoke to find myself not only jobless, but old and fat, or at least oldish and fattish. And worst of all I was alone, seriously alone, and now I had nothing but time to notice it.

  I still hadn’t heard a word from Michael. Part of me, the embarrassingly self-destructive part, kept thinking he’d call any moment. Maybe he’d meant to nudge me into taking the buyout, and then he had really fallen for me, but he didn’t have the guts to leave his own job, and now he was too humiliated to talk to me. He should know me better than that. Or maybe he just had the flu, had been out of work, wasn’t checking e-mail or phone messages, and forgot to pay his cell phone bill, so his cell was temporarily out of commission, and even the message saying this number was temporarily out of service wasn’t working.

  I shook my head. I wondered if there was a man on the face of the earth who’d ever spent half this much time overanalyzing a woman’s poor behavior. In one of the oldest tricks in the book, some guy had pretended to be interested in me to get me to do what he wanted, and we’d had sex a couple times along the way. No big deal. I’d been used and abused—end of story.

  For lack of a better idea, I wandered out into my backyard. In the four years I’d lived here, I could probably count the number of times I’d been in my own backyard on the fingers of both hands. A local landscape service mowed once a week in the summer and also did spring and fall cleanups. My contribution was to write the checks and to buy a hanging plant for the front porch, and then watch it die a slow death either from under-or over-watering, or possibly some lethal combination of both.

  One ambitious spring I’d bought a whole tray of hot pink impatiens. I kept meaning to buy big terra-cotta pots and potting soil and whatever else I might need, but I never did manage to transplant them from their flats. By August they’d shot up tall in their tiny square plastic prisons, lost most of their leaves, and turned a kind of gangrene yellow. Somehow they still managed to bloom—big, defiant pinker-than-pink pinwheel-faced flowers sprouted from the top of almost every spindly plant.

  How many times was it that Michael and I’d slept together? Dozens? More? Not that it mattered, not that it was just about the sex. The sex was good, but the stroll down memory lane might have been even better. I remembered reading that on the Dick Van Dyke Show in the ’60s, Rob and Laura Petrie had to keep one foot on the floor if they even sat on the same bed. When Michael and I were together, I think we each kept one foot in the ’70s.

  We joked about streaking around my suburban neighborhood, something neither of us had had the guts to do in college. I’d thrown out my albums years ago, but Michael still had some of the same vinyl records I’d played to death: Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark, Todd Rundgren’s Something/Anything?, Cat Stevens’s Tea for the Tillerman. He even had something to play them on: a brand-new old-looking Mission Stack-O-Matic combination record, radio, and CD player. In bed or out, it all happened to the rhythm of the past for Michael and me.

  It was funny. I hadn’t loved high school and had been only incrementally happier in college, but the older I got, the more I enjoyed trading memories with people who’d been unhappy at the same time I was.

  “You should have seen my hair,” Michael would say. “A tragedy of epic proportions. It was so wavy I had to wash it before I went to bed and sleep with one of my sister’s nylon stockings pulled down over my head so I could get that surfer dude look.”

  “That reminds me of my first garter belt,” I’d say. “The hooks in the back somehow malfunctioned, and the whole thing fell to the ground between classes. I think it was seventh grade, maybe eighth.”

  Michael rolled the sheet down and kissed my right breast. “So what did you do?” he asked.

  “I slipped behind a door and kicked off my shoes—I’m remembering penny loafers, but maybe they were Mary Janes. Anyway, I stepped out of the stockings, put my shoes back on, and kept walking.” I nuzzled his neck, where he was ticklish, and he laughed. “It was between classes and the halls were packed, so I’m not sure anyone even noticed.”

  “Wow,” he said. “I’d like to have been the kid who found that garter belt. I would have sneaked it into my room and slept with it for years.”

  “Oh, please,” I said. “I bet you had all sorts of girls throwing their garter belts at you.”

  “Maybe a few,” he said.

  I wondered if Michael would have given me the time of day in high school. Not that he was exactly giving me the time of day now. I bent down and broke off a beautiful sky blue and canary yellow flower that I was pretty sure was an iris. Mysterious things were growing all over my backyard, flourishing despite my neglect. Too bad my life hadn’t fared as well.

  My house was the smallest of five houses built on the grounds of a former estate, when the owners had decided to sell off some of their property. As the Realtor had explained it to me, if you imagined a pie, the original house still owned half, and the five newer houses each had a pie-shaped slice of the other half. I had the middle slice.

  The name of the street, Wildwater Way, was more puzzling, since I hadn’t noticed any appreciable wildness or water in the immediate vicinity. “No worries,” the Realtor had said cheerily. “If coastal erosion keeps up, you’ll be waterfront before you know it.”

  The beach hadn’t gotten any closer since I’d moved in, but I did notice that if the tide and wind were just right, I could sometimes smell the ocean.

  In hindsight, I probably should have stayed closer to the city, but I’d built up some good equity in my townhouse and wanted to move up to a single-family and thought it was a good investment. Marshbury, Massachusetts, was a pretty little beach community with property values that only went up. It was the perfect white-picket-fence kind of suburb, and I guess I thought if I bought the house, the life could somehow follow. Even at my age.

  My neighbor to the right was out in her yard. She had her back to me, and she was hanging up a load of white laundry. When I’d moved in, she’d left me a basket of cookies and a note that said, Welcome to Wildwater Way. I’d finally gotten around to putting a thank-you note in her mailbox a week or so later as I was racing off to work. In the years since, we’d wave when we passed on the road or were both heading out to our driveways at the same time.

  Her laundry, mostly sheets and towels, looked clean and crisp and oddly beautiful. It was whipping around in the wind, trying to dance its way free of the clothespins that were holding it down. I suddenly really wanted a clothesline of my own, though I hadn’t the foggiest idea how to arrange one. Maybe there was a service I could call.

  I wandered over to our property line, marked by a waist-high fence on her side. “Hi,” I said. “I was wondering about your clothesline.”

  When she turned around, I could see that she’d been crying.

  “Oh,” I said.

  She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands, then shook her head. “Listen,” she said. “I don’t care what the Marshbury Town Council says. I’m a card-carrying member of Project Air Dry, and we’re going to take this all the way to the Supreme Court if we have to. I have the right to dry my clothes any damn way I want to.”

  “But…,” I said.

  She picked up her laundry basket and stomped away.

  “Nice talking to you,” I whispered.

  I MADE A vase for the iris from an empty bottle of Sam Adams Boston Ale that Michael had left behind. I placed it on my kitchen windowsil
l and really hated the way that it looked like a shrine to lost love. Or at least potential love.

  I checked unsuccessfully for phone messages of any kind, then moved on to my pedometer: 121 steps so far today. I’d been reading up online about walking, and I knew 10,000 steps a day was recommended for maximum fitness and weight loss. My entire total so far for the week was 352. Woo-hoo.

  I slathered on some sunscreen. I drank a glass of water. I went to the bathroom. All those shoes I’d charged were still in the trunk of my car, so I threw some socks on my couch and headed out barefoot to get a pair. I almost decided to back my car into the garage and unload them all. Maybe I could make a little fitness area in one corner. Somewhere to stretch. Or sit and read motivational fitness books. And I definitely needed a place to store all my sneakers. I’d go shopping for some shelves. I could always walk later, when the sun wasn’t so bright.

  I forced myself to take out exactly one box of sneakers and carry them into the house. I sat on the couch, put on my socks and shoes, and tied the laces. I took a deep breath and made myself walk out my front door.

  I don’t know why I felt so conspicuous. After all, I’d been walking since I was eleven months old. But I’d let myself get so ridiculously out of shape, and I could feel my T-shirt sticking to every extra ounce. The exercise pants I was wearing were so outdated that they had zippers from the knee to the ankle on the outside of both legs, and the waistband was so tight it was creating a serious muffin top. Probably pumpkin. Maybe even pumpkin cream cheese.

  I was also a little bit worried that things might be even worse than I thought. What if I walked and walked, and suddenly I was too out of shape to make it back home? I should have thought to bring my cell phone, just in case I needed to call a cab for a rescue. If I could even get a cab out here in the boondocks. To be on the safe side, maybe I’d just keep walking Wildwater Way. Though that clothesline nut neighbor of mine would probably step right over me if she found me sprawled out on the street. I was lucky she hadn’t tried to poison me with those cookies she’d dropped off when I moved in.

  I walked down to the end of Wildwater, around the cul-de-sac, and back to the beginning. It was a nice enough street, but by about the tenth lap, I was over it. I was feeling great, swinging my arms and going for a nice, natural stride. I’d forgotten how much I used to love to move. I’d played field hockey and softball in high school, did some rowing in college, was an okay tennis player, as long as it was doubles and I had a good partner. I loved to swim.

  Part of the reason I’d been drawn to working at Balancing Act all those years ago was that I’d thought one of the perks would be staying in shape. State-of-the-art fitness center, indoor basketball court, outdoor fitness trail and playing fields. The first couple of years I’d signed up for an aerobics class and even shown up for it a few times, and I played on one of the company softball teams for a couple seasons. But once I climbed my way up to management, most of my available time seemed to be consumed by a never-ending series of meetings. In all those years, why hadn’t anybody thought of circling those shiny company treadmills around a conference table?

  I reached the beginning of my street again, turned right, and started heading toward the beach. It was an absolutely stunning June day—sunshine, blue skies, just the right amount of breeze to cool things off. My new sneakers were a perfect fit, and I felt like I could walk forever. Maybe everything really did happen for a reason, and if Michael hadn’t given me the final push, I’d still be sitting on my ever-widening butt at Balancing Act, trying to decide whether or not I had the guts to take a buyout.

  Who really cared if I ever saw him again? But, boyohboy, when I did see him, I was going to be in such good shape he’d be kicking himself that he let me get away.

  Day 6

  24 steps

  OUCH.

  Day 7

  5010 steps

  I WAS SPRAWLED OUT ON THE COUCH, REMOTE IN HAND. I’D started with Decorator’s Challenge, then segued to Curb Appeal. Now I was finishing my virtual makeover with Pimp Your Patio. I’d learned a lot, but I had to admit that my house looked exactly the same.

  My calves were still so tight they felt like they had tennis balls embedded under the skin. When the phone rang, I limped my way out to the kitchen.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said. I hadn’t even realized it was Sunday until I saw my mother’s name on my caller ID.

  “Well, at least you still recognize my voice.”

  For the first couple of years after my father died, my sister and brothers and I had passed my mother back and forth like a fruit-cake. Now she was relatively happily ensconced in a senior condo community in Florida. She made the telephone rounds once a week, letting each of her children know how much better the others were doing. My goal, as I saw it, was to get through an entire conversation without giving her any ammunition.

  “Of course I do, Mom. How’s the weather down there?”

  “Who knows with all this air-conditioning? Your sister’s husband got another raise, a big one.”

  “That’s great, Mom.”

  “Little Jimmy’s kids all have jobs for the summer. Good ones. Kids these days need to work more. All of you worked every summer.”

  “That’s great, Mom.”

  “Kevin’s wife is pregnant again. Twins run in her family, so you never know.”

  “That’s great, Mom.”

  I hobbled a few steps around my kitchen while I waited. I was out of siblings, so I knew it was my turn next.

  “How’s that fellow of yours? Don, isn’t it? Not that I should remember his name, since I haven’t met him. Any talk of plans yet?”

  My mother was still back on the guy before Michael. I was glad I hadn’t bothered to update her. I hadn’t told her I’d taken a buyout either. Poor Noreen, I imagined her saying to my brothers and sister, now she doesn’t have a husband or a job.

  I decided my best bet was redirection. “So,” I said, “what’s new at your end?”

  “Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Eat, sleep, go to water aerobics. I think I’ll head up for a visit one of these days soon. I figure it’s the only way I’ll ever meet that boyfriend of yours. Or you two could come here. I do have a guest room, you know.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Sounds great. Listen, I have to go now, Mom. I’ve got another call coming in.”

  “Nice to be busy,” my mother said.

  “Love you,” I said.

  I actually did have another call coming in, but my mother was such an expert in the guilt department that I felt like I’d been lying anyway.

  “Where were you Wednesday night?”

  “Wednesday night?” I said. I lifted up one foot and tried to circle my ankle around, just to see if I could loosen things up a little. “Oh, hi, Carol.”

  “We missed you. I thought you were going to make an effort. You’re not depressed, are you? They say it’s one of the first stages of redundancy. Katie Johnson was practically suicidal her first few weeks.”

  I switched legs and circled my other ankle. Carol was the unofficial social organizer at Balancing Act, our very own, I mean their very own I’m Julie, your cruise director from The Love Boat. Carol dressed better, but she was just as perky and knew everybody and everything. She filled in all the gaps for the rest of us over drinks to celebrate “over the hump day” at O’Malley’s pub every Wednesday night after work.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ve just been having so much fun I completely forgot.” Cautiously, I stood on my tiptoes, holding on to the wall for balance. Now I knew how Barbie felt, with her ankles locked and her feet permanently frozen in the point position.

  I lowered my heels slowly down to the floor, then went back up on my toes again. My calves were still tight, but my legs were becoming bendable after all.

  “Really? What kind of fun?”

  “Oh, you know.” I tried taking a few more steps around my kitchen. It hurt, but I could almost imagine walking normally again.

  “Well, Tri
sh and Cathy and Dan and Sue were there, and most of Marketing. Mary is thinking about taking a buyout, too. And I think Sherry is seeing someone, but we couldn’t get her to dish any details.” Carol took a deep breath. “So, what kind of fun?”

  It wouldn’t be a bad idea to have something to look forward to. I really did like some of the people I worked with, and maybe a night at O’Malley’s would be easier than actually calling the coworkers I’d promised to stay in touch with. And, if I were totally honest, part of the draw was that it might also lead to some Michael news.

  “Oh, all kinds of fun,” I said, with what I hoped was a convincing laugh. “I’ll fill you in this Wednesday.”

  I PUT ON my sneakers and walked carefully out to my car. What was I thinking, buying all these sneakers? I’d be lucky to live long enough to wear half of them, especially if I kept up this walking stuff. Who knew it was such an extreme sport?

  I was trying to decide whether to bring the first four boxes all the way into the house or just pile them in the garage, when a pretty teenage girl ran out of the house next door. “I hate you,” she yelled.

  Crazy Clothesline Person held the front door open. “Get back in here this instant, young lady,” she yelled.

  The girl jumped into a green minivan and took off.

  A door slammed. My nutty neighbor started walking across her front yard in my direction.

  I pretended I didn’t see her. The side door of my garage was the closest, so I turned and took a few quick steps toward it. My calves screamed in protest.