Stones in Her Pockets

Stones in Her Pockets

For

Virginia Woolf [1]

            The waters of Crescent Lake are aflame with the rays of the setting sun. From somewhere in the forest beyond its eastern shore, an owl cries, the sound forlorn, eerily haunting; and Kate shivers, imagining her despair rippling just beneath the surface of her skin, as she picks up a stone and drops it into the left pocket of her coat.

            "Are you even listening to me?" Greg asks, looking not at her but at the dying sky of this October day. "But then, I guess I should be used to it by now."

            Kate bends, chooses another stone. Cool to the touch, perfectly rounded, it is smooth, planed by the waters of centuries, and she wonders about this-the eons it took to carve such perfection-before she slips the stone into her right pocket.

            Greg turns, fastens his green eyes on her face. "Kate," he says. "Don't do this."

            "Do what?" she asks, knowing what he means, though she pretends not to, finding it easier to pretend.

 "Ignore me."

            "I'm not," she lies. "I've heard every word you've said." Glancing past him, she sees another couple on the opposite shore. The woman smiles as she turns to the man and pulls his head down, her mouth lingering on his while the leaves of autumn fall around them like rain. Kate watches them and wonders if perhaps she has only imagined the smile, if she simply chooses for them to be happy. Then the man and woman separate and, holding hands, walk slowly back to the path that leads to the parking area. As they disappear among the trees, Kate recalls a time when Greg and she walked hand-in-hand, a time when she believed the world beyond their locked fingers did not exist at all.

            "Do you know how exasperating you can be?" he asks.

            Kate sighs as she thinks, Now we're not even friends.

            Greg shoves his hand into the pocket of his denim jacket, withdraws a pack of Marlboros. "I don't know why you wanted to meet here," he says. "It's getting cold." Hunching his shoulders, he cups his hands, lights a cigarette, and exhales.

            Kneeling, Kate searches the ground, locates a stone-this one is quartz-and picking it up, holds it in the palm of her hand.

            "You know, some developer bought this property. Think he's going to build houses." He shrugs. "Or is it apartments?" Turning back to the lake, he stares at the water. "Either way, he'll make a killing."

            She adds the stone to her growing collection, finds a certain satisfaction in the increased weight in her pockets. It makes her feel more substantial, at least physically, though it does nothing to ease the emptiness inside. She glances at the lake, scans its tranquil shoreline, and in so doing, swallows around the pain of knowing that this too is going to change, as everything else in life changes, and there is nothing she can do to stop it.

            Bending, Greg now picks up a stone, though for him any stone will do; and she watches as he brings his left arm back in a wide arc to fling the stone toward the lake. Skipping across the water, it ricochets toward the center, where it sinks and disappears, the only evidence of its passing the spiraling rings left in its wake.

Kate spies another stone, reaches for it. "You haven't even asked how I'm feeling," she says.

            He sighs, the sound a long expulsion of frustration and of something she cannot identify.

            She touches her fingers to the stone. "Or about. . ."

            "Kate, I'm sorry." Saying this, he turns to face her.

            Sorry, she thinks, but that means nothing.

            "I would have gone with you if I could," he adds. "You know that, don't you?"

            She knows no such thing but nods as if she does.

            The smoke of his cigarette curling upward and dissipating in the October air, he frowns. "You did the right thing. Besides, we didn't have a choice."

            Didn't we, she wonders as she closes her eyes, knowing she will never be able to smell the rich scent of tobacco, see smoke rising in the air, and not think of him, or of this day and the red and dying sky. Blinking, she picks up the stone-finds a measure of comfort in its solidity-then places it in her left pocket.

            "I know you don't believe me," he says, "but it was for the best. You'll see that one day."

            No, she doesn't believe him, not about it being for the best or about anything else for that matter, at least not any longer. Standing, she looks at him. "So why did you wait to tell me you'd been transferred?" she asks.

            "It wasn't intentional," he says, his eyes not meeting hers so that she knows he's lying. "Things just worked out that way." He again turns toward the lake. "None of this has been easy for me either." He hesitates for a moment, then adds, "I did love you, you know."

            Did love me, she thinks. Did. So there's nothing left to say.

            "But I have a family and they . . ."

            Kate shuts him out, having heard it before, though she's tempted to remind him of a time when his family didn't seem to matter, a time when the only thing that mattered was his need of her. She studies the broad line of his shoulders. His is a body she knows so well-the hard muscles of his back, the narrow line of hair, hair like black velvet, that runs from his chest to his abdomen-every curve of this body somehow more real, more familiar than her own.

            "We're leaving tomorrow," he says.

It's hard for her to imagine his being a thousand miles away. Bending, searching for yet another stone, Kate thinks, it will be as if he never was, as if away from this town where I have known him, he no longer exists at all.

            He glances at his watch, turns to face her. "The movers have already left with everything. We're staying at. . ." He pauses, says, "A friend's;" and she knows he fears she will make one last-perhaps even desperate-attempt to keep him there. Yet he needn't worry. His saying "I did love you" is enough for her to let him go.

            "I hope you'll be happy," she says and spies a stone. The largest yet, rough and uneven, it is veined with mica that glistens like blood in the red twilight.

            "I want you to be happy, too," he says. "I really do."

            Kate studies the stone, thinks how terribly formal and polite they sound, and brushes her fingertips over the stone's unforgiving ridges.

            He again looks at his watch. "I really-"

            "I know," she says, "you have to go." Slipping the stone into her right pocket, hearing it click against the others, she straightens as Greg rolls his shoulders beneath the jacket, the gesture somehow embarrassed, then steps toward her.

"Take good care of yourself," he says before he places his hands on each side of her face.

            Saying nothing, Kate closes her eyes, feels the brief, impersonal touch of his lips; and when she again opens her eyes, Greg is walking away. But she doesn't turn to watch him go; instead, she watches the sun appear to hesitate-hang suspended for one last flaming moment-then relinquish its hold on the sky to plunge behind the trees. And as both the sun and the sound of Greg's car fade into nothingness, Kate kneels, selects another stone, and drops it into her pocket.

 Virginia Woolf, playwright and author, filled her pockets with stones and drowned herself in the lake near her home in Sussex