In Wonderland: A Combination Of Fact & Fiction

The old inn in Bar Harbor sits on the shore like an imperial dame and watches the waves approach from the Mt. Desert Narrows. Her grey shingles are weathered but someone has maintained them. She has sat there for over a century, watching as BMWs replace carriages. Still a resort town for the privileged, but less of the blazers and sports coat crowd. A bit more of the upper middle income has broken through to mingle with the lower upper bracket. Indigo and pink lupines, well established blueberry bushes, and sweet ferns line the paths up to a large veranda, where Adirondacks and porch swings wait for guests to sip and watch. The smells of the ocean roll in on a warm breeze. I cart my suitcase up the old stone path. The widow’s walk tempts the romantic in me. I wonder if I can stand there and watch the moon come up. I’ve splurged for a room with a view of the Porcupine Islands, and am looking forward to a creaky four-poster bed. The clerk at the front desk smiles at me as she finishes a conversation with two guests, who seem to be competing with each other, one voice speaking over the other. Josie, the clerk, smiles and nods at each of them, quietly placing pamphlets in front of them. The middle-aged couple banters back and forth with each other, the way you can when you’ve spent decades together. A friendly competition of who will be funnier this time. Josie deftly moves them along without them feeling ushered away.

“Hello,” Josie greets me with a smile. “Welcome to Barberry Inn. May I have the name for your reservation, please?”

“Caroline Norris.”

“Yes, Ms. Norris,” Josie smiles, “We have your room prepared for you.” Pamphlets are passed over and welcomed, and she gives me a skeleton key that makes me grin widely. Josie directs me down the hall and up one floor to the Prudence Suite, where there is most definitely a creaky yet comfortable bed with four sturdy bedposts. Several paintings of ships and islands dot the walls. The heart pine flooring is partially covered by a wool rug. The walls are covered by white cherry blossoms on thin branches with a golden background. I throw my suitcase on a blue settee and play with the key in the door’s lock. A few quick photos for Mom, the history buff, and I open the French door to my little deck, letting the breeze hit my face for a while. The rocking chair is a cheerful pale yellow. I nudge the bottom of it with my foot and smile as it moves, losing myself to my senses for a few minutes, before dressing in a soft yellow summer dress with white flowers, and strap black Mary Janes on my feet. The dress floats around my thighs when I dance.

I head downstairs to the inn’s restaurant and sit at the outdoor bar. The same couple is laughing at a table on the lawn under a white umbrella. I call my parents to update them on my adventures while sipping a gimlet and ordering oysters.

Mid-conversation, my mother cuts me off with a quick “Well, I’ve talked enough.” She is not known for lengthy chats on the phone. We exchange I love you’s and hang up. I open my book, diving into Anne and her adventures in Avonlea. A chapter into it, I hear and smell two men before seeing them. I hear the Chicago in both of them. A warmth of familiarity washes over me. The smell of cigars follows.

“Like I said. Still, I don’t know if I’m going to do it. I’m the President of the Association, but you know, hopefully, he’s not going to be a pain in the ass. We’ll see how that works. But, I’m telling you. He kept repeating what was on the contract. I said, “I read it, I read it.” There’s gravel in his voice, the sort you have if you grew up south of 31st and Halsted.

“Most people do not. They’re surprised by the rules after they break them.” The second gentleman sounds smoother, but the vowels still pull slowly out of his mouth. He sounds more suburban, though.

There’s a pause, and the bartender looks up, watching them move across the lawn. I turn to watch them. Silver hair and a veteran’s U.S. Air Force baseball cap sit atop the taller and slimmer of the two men, who both look to be on the early side of their 70s. They stopped to assess their options, and I watched for the moment when they spotted me. The shorter of the two men gestures slowly to the bar. I exchange a smirk with the bartender before I return to my book and angle my barstool away to the right. “I give it 3 minutes,” I tell the bartender. “I give it until they order their first round and your second drink,” she quips. She’s not wrong.

They sit 2 stools away from me, at the left arm of the bar, which gives them a view of the ocean and my cleavage. Unfortunately. They remove their sunglasses and are not as subtle as they think, as they order 2 bourbons from Jane, whose name is quickly learned by the shorter man. Jane takes their order and cleverly props a bar menu next to me to block their view. Jane is getting a bigger tip from me and will likely lose a few bucks from them. “Thank you,” I mouth at her while they look at their menus.

“Jane, let’s have some shrimp cocktails to start,” says the short man as he taps his fingers on the bar. On his right hand, two class rings and a gold ring clink against the wood. “No problem,” Jane replies. “Bobby. And this is Jack,” Bobby says, gesturing with 2 ringed fingers on his left hand. Jane nods. “We’re not the Kennedys,” Bobby guffaws at his own joke. Jane laughs politely. I grin into my book. Jane is not used to Chicago gentlemen. But she’ll be fine if she can handle the Long Island gentry. She moves away to dry glasses, and I stare at my book, waiting.

“Jack, can we switch seats? You know why, my ear is to you, and I’ll hear you better.”

“What?” Jack leans to his left.

“My good ear is on the wrong side,” Bobby points to it. “Can we switch seats?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Bobby looks at me and grins. I shove my nose further into the book’s pages.

Seats are switched. They look at each other. They look at Jane. They look at me.

“Like I was saying,” Bobby continues, “You have to watch the construction. If I take Lake Street to go west, it goes right by the condo. But I’m familiar with that. When the place gets all painted, I’ll show you. That area all around has really been building itself up. There’s so much stuff going on around there. As I said, it’s all becoming very walkable. Even for us.” Bobby continues to tap away at the bar to a silent tune.

“Well, we did that,” Jack replies firmly. “I did that with you.”

“But not on that part. Well, once you see what I’m talking about, you’ll understand. So. If you’re there, we don’t have to drive a car. Period.” Bobby punctuates with his finger to further draw out his point.

“So, you’re trying to talk me into moving to the city now?”

“Yeah. Why not? You can go all over the place.” Jane brings them their bourbons, and they salute each other with a quick “cheers” and a clink of their glasses.

“It sounds pretty cool, but it’s not for me right now.” Jack swirls the ice in his glass and watches Jane as she reaches up for a bottle, her shorts shifting against her long legs. Phew, he’s a leg guy. I’ll be safe, I tell my short self. But then he starts to talk to the right side of my right breast. Damnit.

“Well. They rob ten people in ten minutes in some areas now,” Jack says to my breast. Ah, just when I was starting to like the old farts.

Bobby pushes forward with his case. “That’s not where you want to be. Well, I mean, it could happen anywhere. But the odds of . . . ” He lowers his voice, “Look, you know what I mean.” I cringe. Jane started to chat with me about my book to distract me from the casual racism that was afoot.

“My sister says it’s not safe anymore in Old Irving Park. But my friend Tracy says she can ride her bike there and is fine. So, I don’t know, Jack.”

“Well.” Jack chews on his ice and orders his second bourbon with a finger crooked at Jane.

“I looked at townhomes in Lake Geneva, but it’s not my thing now. I don’t want to open my window and look at another townhome, you know? I’d rather look at the lake or the skyline. But, you know, we’re getting older now. We’re supposed to live in condos until we’re moved into some crappy home, right?” Bobby laughs a bit too roughly.

“I don’t want to live next to a train track,” Bobby continues. “That’s a pain. I already can’t hear you. I like the area I’m in, but buying something there now was not an option.”

“Maybe once the divorce is finalized, you’ll be able to do that,” says Jack, piquing my interest again. “He’s getting divorced this one,” Jack looks at me as he points to Bobby. “At 72 years old,” he laughs meanly. Bobby grimaces into his glass. But here’s the introduction.

“Congratulations?” I ask.

Bobby shrugs, suddenly shy. “Yeah, well, we stopped having anything in common.”

“Hah!” Jack laughs. “You stopped having sex.” Bourbon and Jack do not seem to mix well. Bobby gives him a pointed look. I look politely away.

“Well. Anyways. I won’t be living in the Gold Coast now.” He shifts his hips from right to left to ease an ache in his bones.

“I’m going to move to the Philippines — hah! I may have to move there if she takes more of it. Agh, it’s getting too late to worry about it. You know? And you don’t know how long you’ll be here anyway.” Bobby slides his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair, which is brushed up and over. The style reminds me of my grandfather’s hair from twenty years ago.

“Hey, look, they’re asking for Help Wanted here,” Jack says with a sharp laugh. Jane’s shoulders twitch in response, and I catch her quick nose wrinkle.

“Aw hell, I’m done working.”

“Well,” Jack decides, “Maybe we both run off to Asia, eh? But Thailand, that’s where we should go.” They continue laughing at their own jokes while they take turns talking to Jane’s legs and my breasts. I regret the lack of a cardigan. Not that it would have done a thing to solve my problem.

The oysters arrive. Blessedly. I turn my attention to them and slurp away.

Bobby turns back to me to repeat introductions, and I tell them my name is Mary. Unoriginal of me, I think, staring down at my shoes, but I am not in the mood to put in any creative effort just now. I see that Jack has been watching my drink slowly disappear. I suck on my ice and wait for Jane to turn around so I can close out and wander down the block to one of the restaurants suggested by the mom I met earlier at Sit & Eat Lobster. As I step away, I hear Bobby sigh and mumble something about “Back in the day.”

No, Bobby, back in no days. No days ever.

My black Mary Janes clunk carefully over the old stone path that leads to newer sidewalks, and I make my way to Lucy’s, an old red brick restaurant that’s been there since 1934. I sit at a table inside, nibbling at seafood, and watch the sun sink into the waves, happily undisturbed by men.