Walter’s heightened agitation at the thought of the impending picnic seemed completely out of proportion, but it was also unfathomably unshakable. He went to bed even earlier, watching the red illuminated numbers of the clock scroll so slowly they seemed to blur, defying the laws of physics. In the early hours , dull eyed and unsettled he hauled himself out of bed, facing the blue grey dawn edgily. He took his dog for uncharacteristically long walks through the bush. She was nine now and though at first she’d been eagerly amazed, by Wednesday she was clearly objecting, lagging behind, tail drooping disconsolately. When Walter snarled at her, she threw him such a wounded look that he was immediately furious with himself.
Once daily work obligations were complete, Walter tried to lose himself in books, a strategy that had never failed to distract and comfort him. But he lost his reading glasses every time he set them down, stalking in and out of each room, tossing aside books, pillows, and coffee cups. Curses he’d never before uttered spit from his mouth like the hulls of sunflower seeds from a seasoned long haul trucker.
He found himself trying to imagine what the hell he’d bring to to the potluck. Walter, never much of a cook, was stymied. When he perused the local grocery store to see if they had anything ready made that he could pass off as home cooked, it was slim pickings indeed. Frozen mini quiches and veggie plates with limp looking celery, still green tomatoes, browning cauliflower and a dip that had a suspiciously vague ingredient list. He berated himself for spending any time thinking about it at all, and could not seem to stem the flood of his wildly circular thoughts.
He tried calling Sarah, just in case Margaret had spun some story that he could unravel, could set right. Three times the phone went to message and finally, on Thursday Derek answered. Usually Walter would hang up at this juncture but he was that concerned.
“Derek, I’m trying to get ahold of Sarah, is she there”? It was the most words he’d every exchanged with Derek. It left his stomach knotted and his throat constricted.
“She’s not here”, came the grunted response. Walter felt the flush of heat roll through his body.
“Well where is she?”
“She’s gone. I expect she’ll be home sooner than later”.
“Sooner than later, what the hell kind of answer is that”? The dial tone buzzed, Walter’s question dangling like a pulled plug. By Saturday, Walter had decided to just bag up some offerings from the garden, baby carrots, new peas and strawberries that were just ripe enough to pass. It would have to do. He’d slide the bag unobtrusively onto one of the tables and hope one of the women would deal with it appropriately, place it on a fancy plate with a nasturtium for garnish. He imagined he’d stay just long enough to run interference with Sarah, let her know she didn’t need to be there, and neither did he. Maybe they’d both end up at his place, just the two of them sitting on the swing chair on the front porch, sipping cold beer and laughing about the way they’d avoided the barely concealed rivalry, the sly measuring glances to see who had brought what, whose children were ill mannered, whose dress was a little too short for decorum. The physicality of church seemed to restrict that kind of nonsense, but out in the open air, who knew how unravelled things might become.