The Storyteller’s Apprentice … … (another short story)

I was sitting on the westbound Go-Train with my boyfriend at the time, Marcus. We were leaving the city and going to my parent’s house for an early Friday night supper. The train ride took about an hour and a half. So, with time to kill, we settled down into our seats, I began to make up a story, just for the fun of it. I snuggled into Marcus’s enveloping arms and began with the elusive and seductive female prototype, just to wet his appetite …

“Once upon a time not too long ago there was this beautiful young woman who married a successful older businessman. They lived in a split-level ranch-style bungalow down on the lakeshore near the village of Oakville. The outstanding feature of their trendy new home was a stylish kidney-shaped pool that overlooked the lake. For him, it had been the decisive buying feature of the house. Every day the successful businessman, before he went off to work, would glance out the window to the pool and then to the lake beyond and say ‘how lucky we were’ as he blew a kiss to his adoring younger wife. His lovely wife would smile agreeably and then spend the rest of the day alone until he returned in the late evening. Time passed. They had no children and no pets. Yet, even so, they seemed, by all accounts, happy together and very in love.

One day, in the early spring, after her husband had gone off to work, the wife heard a strange banging down on the beach. The banging continued repetitively for several days beginning around nine in the morning and going on until just before sunset. One Wednesday morning in mid-May after her second at-the-kitchen-counter coffee, she decided to go down and investigate. Wandering away from her stylish bungalow she noticed, not for the first time, the lapping waves pecking away at the pebble shore. She felt the slowly rising sun adding warmth to the nape of her neck. It was going to be another glorious spring day. She came upon a small make-shift wooden shack set back from the beach. There she saw a rugged young boatman banging nails into an upside-down boat frame. He did not notice her at first, and when he did, he just looked at her, smiled, looked down, and kept on hammering at his nails. She approached closer, cautious and curious. He was wearing a faded workman’s cap and a dark blue plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the tips of his sun browned elbows.

Soon she was going down to the little wooden shack every other day after her husband had left for work. She would sit and watch the boat-builder build. She began to chat about nothing in particular. Their days passed gently, peaceful and serene, except for his perpetual rhythmic masculine banging. As the days got warmer he gradually removed his shirt. She could see his upper torso begin to gleam with sunlit warmth.

Life went along for the summer. One day, late in August, around 3 pm, while her husband was away on yet another business trip, she asked the builder if he would like to come up to the house for a quick dip in her kidney-shaped pool. It was hot, after all. Very hot. He thought about it for a moment or two looking out over the vast inviting expanse of the lake. He stood statuesque in his cut off shorts, his body tawny and hard, his eyes grazing the horizon. He lowered them, and said, a dip in her pool sounded like a very nice idea. Besides, he smiled, he had almost finished his shiny new sail-boat. They left behind his weather-worn hand tools and walked slowly up the rocky shoreline to the lakeside house.

Once there, after a quick pirouette, she brightly suggested, how about a skinny dip? He smiled gently, and slid out of his pants. As they were gliding back and forth across the length of the pool, he accidentally brushed his hand along the side of her leg. She returned this accidental gesture about ten minutes later. They were, as always, quietly enjoying each others company, respectfully.

Meanwhile her husband arrived home unexpectantly. When he came into the house he called out her name once, listening. No response. He figured she had either walked up to the village or had gone for a walk along the beach. He went upstairs to unpack, shower and shave. It was while he was standing at the mirror beside the open lakeside window inspecting that little bit under his chin that he heard her, and then him, laugh. With shaving cream still fresh on his face he descended the stairs, opened the double-pane glass patio doors and stood staring out at his young beautiful wife and this unknown sun-baked handsome stranger frolicking naked in his pool.

When she saw him she instantly knew by the look on his face that their blissful and blessed marriage was over. He would never trust her again. And why should he? She had not told him anything about the sun kissed boatman. She had always felt there was nothing really to tell. After all, she had previously reasoned to herself, she had decided long ago never to be unfaithful to her good husband, and, true to her word, she had not. Yet, she knew now too, that this certain ‘fidelity fact’ meant little at that precise moment in time. Her aging husband abruptly turned on his heel and went back into the house, closing the patio doors firmly behind him.

She moved out that night and went down to the little make-do shack of the handsome young boat-builder. He rigged up the sails on his freshly varnished craft and took her out into the middle of the lake. They sailed silently back and forth for several hours under the rising full moon. The water gently lapped the boat. Moon crescents flickered playfully off the waves. Then the boatman slowly and carefully lowered the fluttering white sails. The boat continued to bob gently as they made love for the first, but not the last, time. The End.”

When I finished this merry little tale of love and infidelity, Marcus stood up, and without saying a word, crossed the rail car and sat down in the opposite side window seat. He looked out the black windowpane with nary a glance back to me.

I thought that a very peculiar response to a story.

I was hooked.