HORIZONTAL HUGGING
Teddy
What? The actual fuck? Was my life right now?
One minute I was lost in the woods, and somehow the next I waskissing Sourplum.
No, actually, let’s go further back. One minute I was on tour with my band of seventeen years, and now I was bundled into a van wrapped in a blanket—an actual blanket, not a bullshit piece of tinfoil—after being interruptedkissing Sourplum. And I was annoyed by it? Because I’d rather have stayed lost in the woods? What?
Although, to be fair,shekissedme. She started it, anyway. And maybe the interruption wasn’t an interruption so much as a blessing. Because yeah, even though, as she said, we sure as hell weren’t dating, what the fuck was I doing? What wasshedoing?
I didn’t get to talk to her alone because the low-level frenzy of our rescue involved park rangers and paperwork and Gatorade and medical exams.
Then Lena and Marion were in the van with us on the way back to camp. This was another situation I wasn’t sure was a hindrance or a blessing.
But actually, it didn’t matter. It was neither. Because what did I think? Gretchen and I were going to move the party into my cabin or hers?
As the van came to a halt in front of the camp office, I hopped out and reflexively reached a hand back to help Gretchen out. So maybe Ididthink we were going to move the party to my cabin or hers? Or my hand did, even if my rational brain didn’t?
She didn’t take my hand, just shot me a look I couldn’t decode. But the not taking my hand was a very decided sort of not taking my hand.
Message received: party definitely over.
Which was fine—good, even. I did not need to be getting entangled with this complicated woman.
We were swarmed by the other artists exclaiming how glad they were we’d been found, or, from the ones who’d been on the hike, how sorry they were they’d lost track of us. Gretchen was her usually sunny self, accepting hugs, dispensing absolution, and telling them they hadn’t needed to stay up to greet us. I found I wasn’t annoyed by her Pollyanna shtick, because it allowed me to not have to talk. Maybe we made a good team that way: she talked, I brooded.
We rode golf carts back to Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood and said our good nights as people peeled off one by one at their cabins. Even if I’d harbored any hope of getting Gretchen alone at that point—which I didn’t—it would have been impossible because Marion was apparently walking us all the way home.
“I’m really sorry, Marion,” Gretchen said as we arrived at her door. I didn’t think an apology was warranted. Had we gotten a little distracted? Yes. But had they left us in the fucking woods for hours? Also yes.
“I’msorry,” Marion said. “This is going to inspire us torethink our safety procedures. We’re so concerned about not losing any kids, but clearly we need to think more broadly.”
I mumbled good night, intending to leave them there, but to my annoyance, Marion jogged to catch up with me and followed me around my cabin to my porch.
I half expected her to ream me out for getting lost, or for never coming to sunrise circle, or for… something. I felt generically guilty. But she only said, “How have the first two weeks here been for you, Teddy?”
“Fine.” I realized, though, that I should probably be more forthcoming and/or gracious. Not only had the woman mounted a middle-of-the-night rescue, she was putting me up for free all summer and not asking a lot in return. “It’s been quite… mind expanding in a general sense”—I thought of Anna and the “girl” songs—“but to be totally honest, I’ve been frustrated with myself because I can’t seem to get any writing done.”
“Writer’s block,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if it was a question.
“I guess, though I’ve never had it before.” Finishing a song could be easier or harder, and that song could end up being better or worse, relatively speaking, but the initial noodling-around part had always been second nature. I’d always had more ideas, or bits of inspiration, than I’d had the time, or the discipline, to deal with.
“Perhaps you need a break,” Marion said. “Art isn’t like factory widgets.”
“That’s what my sister said.”
“If you ever want to run anything by me, I’m happy to help. I know you probably think I’m a rich woman with too much time on her hands.”
I started to protest that no, I didn’t think that—I mean,I kind of did think that, but it occurred to me that I had no actual evidence to support this conclusion. Even if it was true, it wasn’t every rich woman with too much time on her hands who chose to spend two months a year living side by side with a bunch of kids and no air-conditioning.
“And maybe that’s true,” she went on. “But I love art—music, visual art, all of it. I’ve been lucky enough to make it a big part of my life. I’m not blessed with a lot of artistic talent myself, which I used to feel bad about. But then I realized that being a good audience member is a skill. I listen well and see well.” She grinned. “And Iamrich, so that doesn’t hurt.”
Hmm. “I don’t want to assume anything about how old you are, but do you have any familiarity with folk music of the 1960s? Protest music in particular?”
“Sure do.”
It was three thirty by the time I was finally alone. Ah, the great indoors. I collapsed on my bed, but although I was exhausted, I was jumpy. The adrenaline hadn’t yet dissipated. After giving some thought to whether it was too late even for us and deciding that, nope, it wasn’t, I FaceTimed Auden.
