PUZZLED

And I had, after that giddy day at the Flat Rocks with Terry, really considered the possibility of following him back to England and trying to create a life there, just as I had considered going with Rick to Chicago. My high school friend Nikki had met a Canadian in Europe in her twenties, followed him back to Quebec, and married him. If only I could be brave enough, daring enough, I’d been telling  myself, maybe I could finally find my true life path. But now I’d made my decision. Nevertheless, I wrote Terry the following letter:

Dear Terry,

     Halloo! How’s England been treating you? My homecoming was poignant and happy, though some friends expressed indignation over my early return, saying since they were prepared to miss me all summer, the least I could have done was stay away. I’ve been in a lazy, meditative, mood, and since the college doesn’t open until September, I can kick back and enjoy myself. I’m playing the guitar again after a five-month intermission. I promised myself that I would look for a classical guitar teacher as soon as I got home, but judging from present performance, I’m destined to become a virtuoso procrastinator, at best. I’m also taking disco lessons again. My ex-dance-partner found a replacement for me in my absence, and now I’m wondering morosely where I’ll find another man so stoical about having his feet stepped on.

     After Cadaques, it ain’t easy to adjust to life in the “big city”—particularly when you live in a poor, run-down section, where everything that’s not nailed down is likely to be stolen. Last midnight I had to drag myself out of bed and get dressed because I remember I hadn’t padlocked my car hood shut after adding water to the radiator. Mornings when I wake up before dawn, I drive my car to Lake Temescal or one of the reservoirs, and, scrambling over fences with “No Trespassing” signs, I hike until the fog burns off. It’s a magical time of day to me—the yellow hills missing their tops, sheared off by mist, and the water’s edge looking like the world’s edge—a gray impenetrable-seeming void beyond.

     On one of these excursions I discovered a little hole-in-the-wall British bakery that advertises salt-and-vinegar potato chips and British bangers where I now stop for coffee and a muffin. I took refuge there one Saturday in the midst of a thunder and lightning storm—almost unheard of in the Bay Area.

     Terry, it seems strange to me now as it never did in Cadaques that I didn’t try to find out more about you. And since I still feel puzzled about our relationship, I wish I had. I wonder why you thanked me for “comfort” and why you left me waiting at the Café Maritime—would have, indefinitely, I guess—the afternoon of the yacht party. As for me (it’s easier to say at this distance), I was afraid of getting close to you, or anyone, too quickly, after a whirlwind romance that ended painfully for me a few months ago. Also, I felt there was some constraint on your part that I didn’t know how to account for. Perhaps you’ll enlighten me?

     I hope all is going well for you.  Say hello to Maynard, Annie, and Jess for me—actually, you might say “good-bye” to them first—I didn’t do a proper job of that in Cadaques.

                                                                                                 Fondly,

                                                                                                 Callie

Not surprisingly, I never heard back from him.