fiction by nancy ford dugan

Dry Ice

I have just about had it with the violet-Ultrasuede-coated, prim matron who has sabotaged the fall foliage tour.

I suppose there’s one in every group. This is my first tour, so I really don’t know. She seems to be under the impression that a tour is not a group endeavor with paying customers, but a series of events designed to accommodate her personal schedule. All of us are just bit players who must adhere to what is most convenient for her.

The gall of this gal. 

*

Opening Night Follies:

At the introductory dinner in a well-appointed Boston hotel, it was hard to assess how irritating co-travelers might become over the course of the tour. 

Folks may have been nervous or jet-lagged, so you had to keep an open mind, and as my yoga instructor would advise, an open heart. That latter part of the equation is a bit harder for me to do. But I was determined to try. 

The group consisted mainly of retired, gray-haired couples. The wives, for the most part, wore bold floral prints and seemed eager to be social. The husbands carried brochures and seemed resigned to their spouses’ fever for foliage. Perhaps the husbands imagined they’d have some well-earned peace and quiet, a chance not to be driving, a chance to sit on a bus in their khakis and simply gaze out the window as red barns, covered bridges, pumpkin patches, apple orchards, pristine white churches, waterfalls, and glorious, breathtaking colors unfolded across mountaintops and filled up the view. 

The matron, Winifred, wore a smart maroon-and-navy Castleberry knit suit to the dinner, along with an air of superiority. We quickly learned she was originally from the East Coast, but after thirty years of corporate wifedom and multiple moves, she and her late husband landed in Chicago. 

She was accompanied by a tall, trim daughter in subdued black-and-white professional attire. The daughter, Audrey, had arrived separately for the tour, having traveled in from Manhattan where she lived and worked. 

Audrey seemed generally pleasant and upbeat. But by mid-dinner, her demeanor had shifted, replaced by a chronic look of mortified resignation (not outrage—that was reserved for we bit players who were new to Winifred’s MO). As the tour moved on and Audrey grew increasingly bedraggled and dead-eyed, we understood why she had chosen to reside at a welcome distance from her mother. 

Winifred made her first fuss over having to wear a name tag, which required pinning on her quality suit. “Oh, what a nuisance,” she said. Audrey quickly came up with a compromise solution, efficiently adhering the tag in a buttonhole on the jacket without damaging the knit material. The tag was a bit askew but serviceable. 

“Can’t you get it to hang straight, for heaven’s sake?” she asked her daughter. With a pout and sniff to indicate her displeasure, the matron then headed to their assigned table, her head held magnificently high like she was crossing parliament or a palazzo. She ordered a martini (“No fruit of any kind, no olives; and I’m not kidding,” she instructed the waiter). 

Since we three were among the outliers of the tour (I was alone; they weren’t a married couple), we sat at the same table, along with other hard-to-categorize people. It was like a wedding in that regard. If you deviated in any way from white, heterosexual, married status, you got dumped into the misfit table. Although I might be wrong about that. I recently attended a wedding for the first time without a spouse, and it was brutal. They put me with a table of strangers, all long-married couples who seemed to know each other. Instead of dining chairs, we sat on long benches, like an elegant yet boho indoor picnic table. No matter where I positioned myself on a bench, as each one of the smugly married wives arrived, they’d ask me to move over since I was messing up the seating arrangement. 

I was odd; they were even. 

After multiple slides along the bench, I feared I’d fall off completely. So I stayed put. “Where do you expect me to go?” I asked. 

The wives wanted to stick like glue to their spouses, apparently, despite not uttering a word to their husbands for the entire meal. Instead, they yelled across the long expanse of the pseudo picnic table to the other wives about boring events (Knitting! A grandson’s soccer game! Where they bought their new dress!) and avoided all eye or conversational contact with me. I smiled pleasantly, I thought, and acted as if I was engaged in their ping-ponging, insipid remarks despite being so fiercely excluded from them. When one of the wives noticed her husband charitably trying to include me, introducing himself and asking my name and connection to the wedding participants, his wife cut him off with a glare. I ate as quickly as I could and departed soon after, telling the parents of the bride, my old friends, what a beautiful gathering it was. And except for the picnic-table people, it was. 

*

The matron seemed miffed about her outcast seating, expecting no doubt that she of all people should be wherever the head table was. But as the martinis continued and the basket of rolls appeared, she kept herself occupied. 

The tour guide, Ken, joined us for dinner, though he was up and down like a yo-yo to address issues bubbling up at the other tables. He liked to discuss his young niece, who apparently enjoyed wearing tiaras. I silently pondered if the niece and Winifred would hit it off. 

We were a multigenerational table. I’d guess the daughter was in her thirties, the dowager probably in her sixties. Ken and I were somewhere in between, in that hazy, waning middle-age limbo between “still highly functioning and productive” and the looming possibility of assisted living down the road.

I admit I was fascinated by the mother-daughter relationship. It would never occur to me to take my mom on a vacation, nor would it occur to her to ask or go with me. But then, Mom and I were beholden to spouses, until we weren’t. And by then my mom was too fragile to travel, and then she, too, was gone. 

Newly widowed, I thought getting off the West Coast and touring New England in the fall would get me to focus on something besides grief. Even the irritation brought on by the company of strangers sounded like a relief and an adventure to me. 

That first night, it became clear that Audrey had the reflexes of a puma (quickly and subtly sliding the butter dish just so to keep her mother from knocking the knife to the ground after she slathered her heated dinner roll) as well as the ability to foresee Winifred danger zones (e.g., conversational topics, food and drink consumption, room temperatures). It was like witnessing a well-trained Olympic athlete who had put in the required hours to master their sport. When her mother complained she had something stuck between her teeth, Audrey whipped a pack of dental floss out of her oversized purse. Winifred grabbed it and excused herself to the ladies’ room. 

“That was impressive,” I said to Audrey.

She smiled. “I was a Girl Scout. Mom was our troop leader. I come prepared.”

*

Over entrees (Winifred ordered everything that could possibly cause a stroke), the misfits made polite inquiries about each other. 

“No, I have no other children,” the matron said when asked. “Just a daughter. And you know what they say. Daughters are competition.”

“Who says that?” I asked. It just came out of me. Audrey looked as if she’d heard this all before. The tone of Winifred’s voice when she said it was stunning; she actually looked as if she was shivering a moment, recalling her rage when her late husband may have smiled at their daughter. Winifred was the star; no understudies, please. 

“My niece Tina is the apple of her father’s eye, that’s for sure. But my sister is happy about it. It means she can get some private time while her hubby”—yes, Ken said hubby—“hangs out with Tina.”

Earlier, during the introductory cocktail mingling, a potbellied, gruff-looking, older guy named Mr. Pine loudly told Audrey she looked “as good as a government check.” Audrey, the youngest on the tour, had laughed and gracefully moved on to meet the other elders in the crowd. I wondered if Winifred had heard the remark, but I doubt it. She’d been shaking hands with a couple and talking about her golf game. 

*

Winnie’s Tee Time:

Each morning, Winifred was tardy. There’s no other way to put it. We’d all be on the bus on time, raring to go, ready to stare at foliage, and then there would be “the Winifred wait.” Day after day, we were delayed. Audrey inevitably showed up on time and then made several trips back to her mother’s hotel room to scurry her along. When she returned, Audrey always brought treats for us that she scooped up in the hotel lobby shop: licorice, gum, Werther’s caramel suckers; tiny, individually wrapped chocolate bars like Kit Kat or Mr. Goodbar. She’d apologize for her mother’s being late (again) and always seemed optimistic Winifred would be down any minute. You had to feel some pity for Audrey, spending her vacation shelling out money every day to mollify us, to keep us momentarily distracted while her mother held us up. She was squeezed between our aggravation and the wrath of Winifred. Finally, Winifred would arrive, cheerfully say, “Good morning,” and slide her Ultrasueded butt on a remaining bus seat.

*

Busing in New England in the Fall: 

At the beginning and at the end of each day, before and after our group’s roaming at carefully selected scenic sites, Ken would scramble to get us collected and settled on the bus. 

“Anyone missing a spouse?” he’d ask while counting heads.

One day, Audrey, who was single, raised her hand. So did I. Ken looked confused then laughed. “I mean, a spouse who is traveling on this tour!” 

“You need to be more specific,” I teased Ken. 

Even Winifred chuckled. She was sitting in front of me. “I sure miss Grant,” she said. “Would you like to see a picture of him?” Before I could answer, she pulled one from her wallet. He was a chiseled, nice-looking, silver-haired executive type. 

“You must have been a great-looking couple,” I said. 

“They really were,” said Audrey from across the aisle. 

“Thank you,” said Winifred to both of us. Her “to the manner born” cheekbones were still holding up. She had once been a beauty, and she knew it. 

I was about to point out the resemblance between Audrey and her dad but thought better of it. I wasn’t sure how Winifred would react. 

“I notice you like turtlenecks. So do I,” I said to Audrey while the bus steered out onto another long highway. 

“That’s because they hide her neck,” said Winifred. “She was born with a ghastly birthmark all over her neck.”

“Oh no. I hadn’t noticed or seen any sign of that at all,” I said.

“Mom seems to be the only one who sees it.” 

“Well, they did a pretty good job getting it off. They used dry ice. But if you look closely, there are still some imperfections. Oh, how you howled and screamed!” Winifred teased Audrey.

“I was an infant,” said Audrey quietly. “I’m pretty sure it must have hurt.”

“Oh, what a fuss,” Winifred said with a wave of her leather-gloved hand. “Tissue.” 

Winifred had a habit of barking commands to Audrey all day long. Audrey and her purse always delivered. “Tissue” was a big one (never “Kleenex”) as was “Cough drop.” 

On the day O.J.’s “not guilty” verdict was announced, the tour was unusually subdued. We aimlessly wandered around the gift shop at the Shelburne Museum. Ken wasn’t rushing us for a change. 

Winifred was shopping and ordering Audrey around. “Here. Hold this. Go get that card I was looking at. I could send it to Maybelle. No, not that one. I like this scarf. Oh, these are cute.”

Audrey dutifully carried everything in her arms until a salesperson gave her a cutesy fabric basket. Audrey looked so grateful I thought I saw tears forming. 

Winifred started coughing. “I have a tickle in my throat.” Her large blue eyes looked slightly alarmed as she continued coughing and staring in Audrey’s direction. Audrey’s back was turned as she placed Winifred’s many items on the counter for the cashier to ring up. 

“It’s so dry in here,” she squawked. In that split second, any one of us could have reached in our pockets and generated a Werther’s or a cough drop to help Winifred out. But none of us did. I’d like to think we were just sluggish from the news or the outing. 

Audrey immediately dashed across the shop, grabbing a bottle of water from a shelf, tucking it under her arm to free her hands to unwrap a honey-lemon cough drop she then held out to her mother. After a few chugs of water and some cough-drop sucking, Winifred was settled. 

“You okay over there?” Mr. Pine asked.

Winifred nodded at him. 

“Yes, thanks,” said Audrey. 

“Good. I think Ken’s done with his smoke outside the bus and ready to rumble. We better head over.”

“I just have a few more things to look at,” said Winifred. 

“We’ll be right there,” Audrey said. 

Back on the bus, we were quiet as it started to loll and screech out of the parking lot. I rested my head on the back of my seat. Touring is tiring, I decided. So were other people’s dramas. 

*

Over lunch the next day, I asked Audrey how long it had been since her father died. “Two years ago. But he’d been ill for over five years. It was very tough on Mom. She took great care of him.”

I told her Pete, my husband, had dropped dead of a heart attack while he was jogging about six months ago. He was fifty-four and a pretty good runner. 

“I am so sorry. God, that must be brutal. So sudden.”

“Well, years of suffering is no day at the beach either. For the patient or the family,” I said. 

“True. You tell yourself you’re prepared. But you never are, I guess. But still, the shock factor is less. The whole thing stinks. Let’s face it. I admire you for getting out and taking a tour.” 

Someone admired me. Wow. 

I’m not sure Pete ever did. We used to run together, before my knee troubles. It was something we could share, even though I couldn’t keep up with him and we did no talking.

There was a lot of quiet in our marriage. A lot of no talking. 

Pete could turn on people. On a dime. If you used a word incorrectly, he’d take it personally. If your politics didn’t match his, if you married someone he didn’t care for, if you liked a sports figure he had decided was unworthy, you were banned. Asunder. “The Court of Pete” as one of his old college friends used to call it. Pete was judge and jury. You’d suddenly be guilty of something, and sometimes you wouldn’t even be aware of it. Unless you lived with him and were shunned until you figured it out. Or you accidentally repeated the Pete-perceived error. At which point, he would blow up.

We were in the middle of one of those shunnings when he died. I’ll never figure out what I had done wrong this time, this last time.

*

Winding Roads, Winding Down:

Here’s what I have learned about touring. In the beginning, as you accumulate facts about your fellow travelers and acclimate to the routine, it can be engaging and fill you with expectation. 

As the end nears, you are ready to go home and yet nostalgic, trying to stockpile images and good memories before returning to your less than engaging and filled with no expectation day to day life. 

Every morning on the long drives to a site, Ken would yell out trivia or history questions to keep us jazzed up and ready for the big reveal: The White Mountains! The Berkshires! The Green Mountains! He once sweetly scolded Audrey for calling out all the answers before anyone else had a chance.

“Hey, I’m from New York,” she laughed. “I’m competitive; what can I say?” She did hold back after that. But when no one knew the right answer, Ken would turn to her and she’d provide it. 

After the last stop of each day on the tour, the packed bus of travelers was wiped out from the fresh air and the walking and behaving with strangers. Even Winifred was often snoozing in her seat. 

Why did it take so much out of us? We were like putty in the hands of Ken who would let us rest, like a benevolent kindergarten teacher at nap time. 

*

While our first dinner was expectant and anxious, the last dinner was relaxed and weary. Mr. Pine gave a muddled toast. He thanked Mother Nature for the great show. “But soon, it will get colder. And darker. And all those spectacular leaves will fall dead to the ground.” He looked distraught at the notion of winter. Mercifully, Mrs. Pine yanked him down into his seat. We all applauded and then effusively thanked Ken. 

The next day, most of us shared a van to the airport that would drop us off at our respective airline gates. Departure time was critical so we could all make our flights.

We were delayed by Winifred one last time, enraging us all, especially me. 

She offered no apology for holding us up. When Audrey mentioned how concerned everyone was about missing their planes, Winifred said, “Oh, don’t be silly. Don’t be so concerned about others. You’re too sensitive.”

Our rustling of anger on the van subsided. We were inconvenienced. Audrey was ensnared.

Slowly, the van emptied out, the door whooshing open at each gate. We called out in unison “goodbye; nice meeting you; get home safe” to the departing travelers.

I decided I had to get some things off my chest. I found myself balancing upward out of my seat and rocking down the aisle to sit closer to Winifred—in fact, right behind her. Audrey was across the aisle, engrossed in organizing her purse. 

“Did you enjoy your trip?” I asked Winifred. I spoke slowly and attempted a quiet, cultivated voice, thinking that would have an impact on her.

“Yes, very much. Weren’t the leaves just gorgeous?”

“They really were.” I paused. “You know, you are a very lucky woman.”

Winifred looked taken aback. 

“You have a daughter who is obviously devoted to you. Who has spent her vacation with you. Who would do anything for you. I find that impressive. And a little heartbreaking since I’m not sure you appreciate her or all that she does for you.”

Winifred looked stunned. She turned away from me and put on her sunglasses. She looked over at Audrey, who was staring out the opposite window.

I had said what I wanted to say. Well, not the part about her rudeness to the others on the tour, but at least about the dynamic with Audrey. 

“I am lucky,” I heard Winifred say softly. 

Why did this feel like such a victory? 

Maybe it wasn’t too late for Audrey, as it surely seemed to be for me. Although maybe it wasn’t too late for me either. Yes, I was now alone, destined to sit at the misfit table for my foreseeable future. But I was no longer walking on eggshells or trying to please anyone. I was no longer in the Court of Pete. 

The van halted.

“Okay, Mom. This is us,” Audrey said. She stood in the aisle and scooped Winifred’s Ultrasueded elbow to help launch her out of the seat. The coat had held up surprisingly well. “It’s machine washable,” Winifred had assured us on our first hayride. 

Audrey smiled at me and wished me well. Had she heard me? I wondered. Did it matter? 

Winifred waved as Audrey, in high-alert mode, assisted her down the steps.

I watched from my window as their tweedy Hartmann luggage was assembled on the curb. Audrey looked up in my direction, shielding the fierce morning sun with a hand over her eyes. “Thank you,” she mouthed to the glass. Winifred was already headed inside the airport. Audrey turned and followed her. 

Someday, I hoped, Audrey too would be free.