Conclusion to "Guts"

Story so far: The Old Saleswoman is telling her niece Sara about a stormy evening in Rutland in 1978 when she and her husband Roy head out to a ski lodge to deliver a $19. case of wine glasses.


We hit route 4 on 4 semi bald tires with looses chains rattling and threatening to come loose. I’d reach out the passenger window and snap the wiper blades every 60 seconds or so to loosen the ice and release the blades. The defroster worked only on the driver’s side. I prayed we had a decent ice scraper somewhere in the backseat. After 5 minutes I begged Roy to turn back.

“You‘re killing me!” I screamed at him. “You’re going to kill me!”

Roy knew instantly I meant our life together. And I knew it too for the first time. The cold, the stump, the flat, the laser like concentration to live, the dainty and delicate blonde. We both knew I was only with him that evening to protect my meager interest in the only adult life I ever knew.

I stopped talking now and looked over at Sara to see if I could gauge her reaction to my story. Sara was staring at me, waiting for more. But there really was no more. Not really.

Finally she asked “Well, what happened that night?” Did you make it?”



“We slid of the road about half way there, and had to be towed. The towing company wouldn’t take our card because we were over the limit. It was a mess. We

eventually got out of there somehow and made it back to the flat. We must have. I’m here now, aren’t I?” I just wanted my story to go away.

“And you stay married to him for how long after that?”

“About six years.”

“Six years.” she repeated staring out her window.

“But it was different between us from then on. We didn’t give each other breaks anymore. We were still married, still teamed up, but that didn’t mean we had to be nice to each other or give each other breaks.”

For the rest of the ride to Killington, Sara kept the ear bud in. When we finally entered the ski lodge, I felt stiff and icy inside. I was trying to shake off Rutland, and the, brittle, awkward feeling you get when you know you’ve given away too much of yourself, hoping for some return, but realize there will be none.





We caught up with the rest of the family easily enough. It was a helpful to connect with people who knew me while my back story was being written. Since I still felt wide open and shaken, to chatter aimlessly seemed to help. Sara simply drifted away to meet with some girls who looked of a similar age and life.

Not long after we arrived, everyone in the lodge turned their heads at the sound of broken glass. A waiter, not far from my niece, had dropped a very large drink tray, spraying glass and cocktails all over his vicinity. Instinctively, I pulled myself out of the deep leather sofa I had staked out for myself to try to disappear into, and took a few steps in her direction.

I could see she was unhurt, and could hear her reassuring her friends that the waiter wouldn’t get in trouble because those glasses didn’t cost much. She knows that because her aunt lived in Vermont the 70’s and had been close to the restaurant industry. The glasses probably cost $19.00 in the 70’s and $30.00 now. Then she told them it wasn’t much money then, and it still isn’t much money now.

I turned to walk away and found myself in the pub on the other side of the lodge. A glimmering big screen TV hung over one end of what looked like a very old wooden bar. I took a stool and placed my shoulder bag on the bar.

“Excuse me, Sir? Sir? What’s your best good, dry, crisp chardonnay? I’d like a glass. No, could I have a bottle?”

The stool I took was comfortable, it was situated nicely to watch the TV if I cared to; the wine glass I held in my hand was pretty and delicate. As I sipped my wine, I watched the bartender use his motor memory to clean and stack glasses .Then I watched as my purse slid slowly off the top of the smooth old wooden bar, and slowly down the side, to the floor.