You'd think it would be easy
to get up and leave,
just go out the door,
but you're fooling yourself.
Once inside, they have you,
and they will not let you go.
The Assassins are waiting,
preparing food for the feast.
And they wait and they lure
you with aroma and ambience,
smiles which say nothing
except please take a seat.
And they watch and they study
with beady eyes like black olives
and movements like a dash
of basil or thyme.
Faces soft and gentle,
like the smell of fresh parsley,
skin the odor of Oregano
with a slight touch of vinegar.
And they wait in the shadows
with their cheese sticks and fries,
and they tempt and they
tease you with Tiramasou.
Behind doors that swing open
they wait with baguettes
cleaning and polishing
with rich olive oil.
The keenest of hunters
whose bait is the best,
needing only to mention
their entrees, hors d'oeuvres.
And it's us the poor lambs
who are right for the slaughter.
One more drink, one more dish
of pasta or veal.
Miranda looked through the sunroof at the dark, angry clouds rolling
aggressively across the sky.
"Even the clouds aren't the same," she said softly to herself.
"What?"
"I said even the clouds aren't the same."
"The clouds? How could they be the same after seventeen years? Clouds form, they dissipate, and form again. They couldn't be the same."
"They could be if you consider the process of condensation and evaporation."
"They still wouldn't be the exact same clouds."
"That's not what I mean. Just forget it."
Miranda reclined and settled in the comfortable leather seat of the Lexus. She put on her sunglasses and feigned sleep so she could avoid any more conversations with Evan. She hated when they spatted like that. Lately, they had been doing that more and more. She felt tears falling out of the corners of her eyes. So far, the entire trip had been a disaster. Everything had gone wrong and the constant rain didn't help either of their moods. It had all started with those goddamn sheets, Miranda thought.
They were their first set of sheets: her favorites. Miranda remembered the day she bought them. Aunt Mary from New Jersey had sent her fifty dollars for her bridal shower, stipulating that Miranda buy linens with the money. Miranda and her mother had gone to Boston to shop. Her mother suggested they go to Filene's Basement and buy irregular sheets. They are much cheaper and you can't even tell where the mistakes are, she had told Miranda. But Miranda did not want to start her marriage out with irregular sheets. She wanted them perfect the way she thought her marriage would be. She went upstairs and bought 220 count cotton designer sheets from the Monet collection. Miranda had spent all of Aunt Mary's money on one set of sheets.
She collected other sheets through the years, but the Monet sheets were still her favorites. She loved the muted water lily print on the white background. She remembered using them for the first time seventeen years ago in their new home in Hamilton, Louisiana. Then, one bump or nudge in the night would most certainly result in a romp. But now when they touched, either one would mumble a polite apology of "sorry" or "excuse me" and then both would retreat to their side of the bed. Lately, Evan, citing insomnia, had started to sleep in one of the guest rooms.
While making up the bed a few months ago, Miranda realized how worn and old the sheets looked. The center was thread bare and beginning to tear. The wear seemed to spread to the corners, but the borders were strong and solid. The sheets displayed the stains of life, of illness and lovemaking, of babies conceived and lost. Looking at the worn sheets, Miranda decided that she and Evan would take a trip back to Hamilton. Once they were there, she knew they could find the happiness their marriage once had.
Miranda stretched out on the worn sheets and planned their visit. They would stay at the Steward Inn, where they spent their first night in Hamilton. For lunch, they could walk to the downtown pedestrian mall, buy oyster po boys at the corner deli, and have a picnic by the fountain in the park. After lunch, they would drive to the military park, Evan would like that, and then meet friends for dinner. She laughed at her enthusiasm. This trip would make everything right.
Evan was less enthusiastic about this so-called sentimental journey. Nothing will be the same, and you will end up disappointed, he had told her. What sort of magic do you hope to find, he questioned. Evan proved right. The first disappointment she had was making the hotel reservations. The once elegant Steward Inn was now a half-way house for recovering alcoholics. Most of the downtown stores and restaurants had either closed or moved to the new mall on the interstate. The corner deli was replaced by a chain restaurant after the owner died; and the park with the pretty fountain was black-topped over and made into a commuter parking area.
Sensing her disappointment, Evan suggested that they go to the battlefield. The military park had the same tired look as the downtown. Many of the monuments were closed because they were being repaired or cleaned. Acid rain and the lack of funds were causing them problems, the park guide had told them.
They went back to the downtown Ramada to change clothes and wait for Alice and Harold to arrive. Miranda and Evan had rented their carriage house when they lived in Hamilton. At least Miss Alice will be the same, Miranda thought. Miss Alice did look the same, but she came alone. Harold, she told them, ran off with a real estate agent twenty-five years younger. Miss Alice took it all in stride.
"Out of forty-three years of marriage, I really was only happy during the first six," Alice confided to Miranda. "I don't know why I stayed with him. The divorce was a breeze. I spend most of my time going across the river to Vicksburg to the casino. In fact, I think I may move there."
"But Miss Alice, this is your home. You grew up here. How can you just leave like that? What about all your memories?"
"Miranda, dear, it's best not to look back. I'll take my good memories with me. Now shall we go to dinner?"
After dinner Miranda and Evan discussed Alice's marriage.
"I still can't believe it. They were always so happy. The absolute perfect pair. Remember when Town and Country did an article about them?"
"God, Miranda, it was common knowledge that Alice was screwing around on Harold for years."
"Not Alice! That is ridiculous."
"Well, it's true. Ask her about it tomorrow."
Rain slid down the windshield in the early afternoon. Miranda pulled the car seat up and looked out the window, watching the landscape. The flat terrain of Mississippi allowed her to see far ahead. For a moment she was dizzy, looking ahead to the future, watching the present fly by at seventy miles per hour, and making her immediate past a blur in the side mirror. Now she knew. She knew that if they put the car in reverse even the landscape would not be the same; a leaf would fall or a bird would fly away, and she knew that she would never find the happiness she once had. Evan was right. Like the clouds, nothing will ever be the same.
She reached over placing her hand on his thigh and said, "You're right. Nothing is the same, not Hamilton or Miss Alice or us or even the clouds. It was a mistake to come. How did we change so?"
A tandem truck passed them, spraying water on the windshield. The car slowed and for a moment they lost sight, then Evan hit the wiper to high.
"Hell," Evan said, "blame it on the rain."
