Reuben Downes is a Mallard â the kind that dominates the Co-Ed Fastpitch Softball League for Adults in Western Vermont, aka the Coleslaw League.
A newcomer to both the team and the town, Reuben is seen as the oddball outsider by his teammates and the curious, often opinionated locals. So, when he puts an âartâ installation in his backyard that sets off a firestorm in the community, people demand answers about what it means.
But Reuben, always more inclined to let others call the shots, keeps his motivations to himself. That is, until his inaction raises an ominous threat to the people around him. And in the real world, as with softball, when the bases are loaded and your teammates are counting on you, itâs time to step up to the plate â even if for Reuben, thereâs a real possibility of striking out.
Written with sharp humor and a deep affection for small-town living, sports, and the cadence of the seasons, Ducks on the Pond is about what it takes to fully engage in life.
Reuben Downes is a Mallard â the kind that dominates the Co-Ed Fastpitch Softball League for Adults in Western Vermont, aka the Coleslaw League.
A newcomer to both the team and the town, Reuben is seen as the oddball outsider by his teammates and the curious, often opinionated locals. So, when he puts an âartâ installation in his backyard that sets off a firestorm in the community, people demand answers about what it means.
But Reuben, always more inclined to let others call the shots, keeps his motivations to himself. That is, until his inaction raises an ominous threat to the people around him. And in the real world, as with softball, when the bases are loaded and your teammates are counting on you, itâs time to step up to the plate â even if for Reuben, thereâs a real possibility of striking out.
Written with sharp humor and a deep affection for small-town living, sports, and the cadence of the seasons, Ducks on the Pond is about what it takes to fully engage in life.
Blame it on a stone. The flat and oblong kind. A water-worn stone, perhaps from when Lake Champlain had been an Ice Age inland sea covering this flat stretch of grassy ground, where a well-smacked ball getting past the right fielder would roll far and fast enough for an automatic home run.
Tucked into the laces of the catcherâs right cleat, the stone was heavy enough to be noticed on impact, but not enough to say for sure it was deliberately flung, or so he thought. It was a trick Reuben learned in his high school years from Teddy Marks, the Varsity catcher, whoâd essentially taught Reuben how to play the position when he was just a Freshman. Teddy had said, âUse it sparingly. You gotta save it for just the right moment, just the right asshole.â Because every team has one: the guy who takes thirty practice swings before even stepping into the box. Hand held up to put the pitcher on hold as he digs, digs, digs at the dirt beside the plate, then takes yet more practice swings. Tall or short, but always on the stocky side, heâs louder than everyone on the field. He throws his hands up at teammate errors, and argues the close and not-close calls (never mind that, in this case, the ump is a local high school kid getting paid in snack bar vouchers).
And this time, itâs not a he, itâs a her. Dana Van Sykes. Clocking in at about 5â3â, built solid and bowlegged like a bulldog with a bark to match. And this isnât a high school team but a bunch of grown-ups playing in a competitive co-ed softball league in Orrsville, Vermont. Now the top of the fifth, the game is scoreless but the emotional stakes are high, amped up over things both related and unrelated to the game, things like past grudges and present grievances, âoil and waterâ personalities, and a community controversy that was imposing attention even on those who claimed they couldnât care less about it.
With a sudden buzz, the overhead lights kick on, their sensor set for dusk just as it becomes difficult for the players with middle-aged eyes to track the ball. The spotlights fade up to fully bright, heightening the drama as if the field is a stage.
The pitcher, Maddy rolls her shoulders a couple times to loosen up, then she begins a complicated series of push-and-pull arm movements before windmill-whipping the pitch toward Reubenâs outstretched mitt. An inside pitch that Dana chips up and out of play over the backstop.
The next pitch is nearly identical to the first, which allows Dana to recall and adjust, stepping just a hair back from the plate to catch the ball solidly, sending it soaring toward right field. But the hit sails sideward. Reuben lets out a relieved breath.
âFoul ball.â The ump has the kind of flat-voiced, under-enthusiasm perfected by 16-year-olds. âOh-and-two.â
âVan Sykes,â Reuben says. âDidnât I once hear you say that actually, there is shame in going down swinging?â
Dana digs, twisting her cleat in the ditch. âIâll show you swingingâŚâ
Reuben can tell by the focused power in her stance that Dana Van Sykes is spring-loaded to crush the next pitch. With his right hand, he carefully slides the stone from his shoe. The timing would need to be perfect. Reuben gives the signal to Maddy for a changeup. He can tell she is wary, both of them knowing that Dana is a sharp read, and the consequences of her catching a lob could be disastrous.
âCâmon Mags. I got ya,â Reuben assures.
The infielders chime in, too, âAlright, Maddy.â
âMake her work, Maddog!â
The windup is a perfect deception, its full-speed motion revealing nothing of the flat, deadspin release. Maddy was right to worry as Dana had a calculation ready in her head if the change-up was served. She checks her swing for a split-second and lock-targets on the ball sailing toward her. But just before it comes in reach, Reuben flicks the stone at Danaâs ankle. The distraction, coupled with the brainwork she was already employing to adjust to the changeup, was simply too much. Dana Van Sykes swings and misses.
âStrike three, batterâs ouâ!â
Fortunately for everyone involved, Dana Van Sykes drops her bat before body slamming Reuben, who crashes back into the ump, the two of them domino falling into the backstop.
Like a match lit near a propane leak, the players explode into action. Joss, the shortstopâalways the fastest runnerâgets to Dana Van Sykes first, pulling the batterâs shirt and spinning her around while Dana lets fly a few blind punches. The first-base coach tries to reach them, but instead gets sucked into a fast wave of players shoving and shouting, wrestling and fist-swinging. Reuben rolls off the flattened umpire. Peeling off his catcherâs mask, he enters the fray, pulling people apart, which proves to be futile as a handful of spectators spring from the bleachers and add their bulk to the fray. The obscenities and condemnations fly.
"Cheaters!â
âGo back to where you belong!â
âGodâs gonna strike you down, Reuben Downes!â
This is not your typical brawl. Most of the players had never taken, much less thrown, a punch, and so the chance of any injuries more serious than bruises and scrapes is small. Look left and you see Toren Abernathy, voted Washington Countyâs Postal Delivery Person of the Year, grasping a fistful of organic farmer, Aaron Reichertâs beard. Marnie Colombe, mortgage lender and vocal PTA member has Donny Scavutto in a headlock. The waitress swinging at the coffee roaster; the herbalist taunting the naturalist. And of course, Reuben, who is arguably the lightning rod in this situation, trying to defend himself against car-dealing twin brothers, Dwayne and Shane (âCome see Dwayne and Shaneâyouâll never drive the same!â).
If there was one cool head on the field, it is Patrice, who rushes in from right field to usher the stunned umpire off the field, insisting on giving the boy a ride home. The headlights of Patriceâs car reverse out of the spotlighted sceneâa chaos that could almost be described as gleeful. Or at least, a valve release on a pressure cooker whose force had been building all week and maybe even a couple of decades.
As the last of the sun slips behind the Adirondacks across the lake, a local patrol car pulls up, lights flashing. And just as quickly as it started, the brawl deflates. Players and fans, neighbors and friends dust themselves off, wipe their bloodied noses and blink at each other as if waking from a confused dream.
CHAPTER 1
The rolling suitcase was like an obedient dog that slowed and paused with Reubenâs gait as the innkeeper stopped along the hallway to show him and Hannah where they could find extra towels and blankets, then a few steps later pointing out a sepia photograph of the Schuyler Inn from the 1930s.
Hannah went up close to inspect, squinting into the details.
âThe original part of the house was built in 1816 by Thomas Schuyler, one of the townâs original settlers and owner of the lumber mill.â Rosemaryâs voice was bright with the practiced tone of a tour guide. Full-figured in a floral dress, tan hose, and blocky shoes, the woman very nearly resembled one of the stuffed taffeta chairs in the sitting room they had just passed through.
âGhosts?â Hannah asked.
Rosemary tilted her head questioningly, but Reuben knew where this was headed.
Hannah slowly shifted her weight side to side so the floorboard creaked like a sound effect in a horror movie. âThereâs so much history here, I would imagine thereâs some energy of the lost hanging around.â
âEnergy of the lost?â
âCold spots?â
âOnly from drafty windows.â
âThings gone missing?â
âWhen youâre my age, youâre certainly apt to misplace things.â
âDoors inexplicably slamming?â
âNot that Iâve experienced, dear.â
Hannah sighed. âPlease tell me thereâs been at least one murder or suicide?â
It was a thing Hannah did, steering conversations into unexpected, sometimes off-putting directions, often but not always to do with the macabre. Hannah had once told Reuben it was a trait she took on as a kid, a way of upending the kind of trite, small-talk exchanges that made her want to slice her ears off.
âNo murders, no suicides. At least not on record.â Rosemary added. âAnd I know the record.â She stopped in front of the door to their room; the sign on it read Sweet Birch Suite. âIâm afraid youâll find the inn a little lacking in that kind of gothic romance. But I do have some pristine historical artifacts Iâd be happy to show you, including a set of napkins that were hand-embroidered by Mrs. Schuyler herself.â
Rosemaryâs response was the kind of redirect that Reuben had used himself when he and Hannah were first dating, having met just over a year before at the Hartford Area Business Associationâs annual meeting. The two of them had been seated at the same breakout table, a discussion that was quickly dominated by a personal business coach. During the âbio break,â Hannah elbowed Reuben as he waited for a turn at the coffee table.
âThat guy needs to be personally coached in shutting his piehole, am I right?â
âSorry?â Reuben asked.
Hannah waved her hand dismissively. âYou donât have to apologize. Iâm not offended.â
Up this close, Reuben noted her eyes were swimming pool blue, the kind painted on baby dolls. He said, âI meantâŚI wasnât sure what you wereââ
âIâm Hannah Beck.â She took Reubenâs hand and shook it firmly.
âRight, Poppets,â he said. âI remember from the intros.â Hannah had told the group that her business was making hand-decorated cake-pops designed to look like actual people, famous or otherwise.
âAnd youâre Reuben Downes. I actually have one of your paintings.â
âWow, really?â
âBut donât tell anyone because itâs the one that used to hang in the waiting room at the Marlborough Chiropractic Center. I used to work reception there. The painting was always in my line of view, and it was kind of, like, my escape on long, dull days. I used to imagine stepping into that lake. How cold the water would feel on my ankles. That greeny pine needle smell? Stuff like that. So when they laid off a few people, including yours truly, and didnât give us a single dayâs severance, I smuggled the painting out in what felt like a fair exchange.â
This was a lot of information for Reuben to take in, and he wasnât sure if he should express appreciation that she liked the painting so much that she stole it or sympathy that sheâd lost her job, so he chose to not comment on either. âThatâs quite a coincidence, then, that we ended up in the same breakout session.â
âI actually totally finagled it with my friend Constance who works in catering. I mean, once I saw your name was on the attendee list. Cause I thought, how cool would it be to meet you and tell you all that?â
The line for coffee was moving painfully slowly. Hannah must have noticed Reuben silently counting the number of people in front of him.
âListen, thereâs an Italian bakery just a block from here. Their cappuccino is so good it brings tears to my eyes. Capân Coach wonât miss us. What do you say we ditch?â
In truth, Reuben had already decided to duck out of the rest of the meeting after heâd had some coffee to fortify him for the drive home. Normally, he would politely decline but there was something about Hannahâs openness and energy that he was enjoying.
âYou know,â Reuben said, âthat sounds great.â
Once they were settled at a tiny table in Caffe Allegro, sipping what Reuben had to admit was an excellent cappuccinoâsomething he wouldnât otherwise have orderedâhe asked Hannah about Poppets.
âIâm very popular with the Bat Mitzvah set,â she had told him. âAnd letâs be real, itâs not easy to capture the nuanced facial features of a thirteen-year-old. They donât let me put zits on them.â
Reuben sipped, entertained by her frankness. âWell, Iâm sure most of your customers arenât expecting sophisticated portraits.â
âOh, no?â said Hannah. âYou think a cake pop is any less of a canvas than what you paint your abstract impressionistic landscapes, or whatever you call them, on?â
âYeah,â Reuben laughed but saw Hannah was asking in earnest. âI mean, no. I donât actually know.â He couldnât yet tell if this woman had a sharp sense of humor or was completely lacking in one. He tried to strike a more diplomatic tone: âI would imagine frosting isnât the most cooperative of mediums.â
âItâs fondant, not frosting. And youâve never actually seen a truly skilled decorative cake pop, have you?â
âIâm not big into desserts.â
âIâm not either,â she said. âI just like making them.â Without giving Reuben a chance to comment on the strangeness of being a baker who didnât like sweets, Hannah asked him, âWant to know why I named my business Poppets?â
It was like a verbal ping pong match, and Reuben was on his heels but game to try to keep up. âWell, thereâs the obvious pun with cake pops,â he answered. âAnd arenât poppets, like, dolls of some kind?â
Hannah explained that historically, poppets were a form of witchcraftâdolls made from carved roots, clay, or even potatoesâto hex the person whose likeness they represented.
âLike voodoo dolls? Youâre some kind of baking witch?â
âDonât be ridiculous,â she said. âIâm a businessperson. I make a huge margin on every cake pop. If my customersâ hair started falling out or their house burned down or their girlfriend disappeared or they lost a ton of money in the stock market or their teeth turned black or their hamster spontaneously combustedâŚthat would be bad for business.â She added. âYou would have to be highly selective about who and when you hex.â
âHuh.â Reuben was still not sure to what degree she was or was not joking. âIâve had clients I disliked but it hasnât quite risen to wanting to murder their pets.â
âOh my god, youâre wondering if Iâm serious!â She laughed so boisterously that an older couple on the other side of the cafe turned to look at them. Reuben smiled and gave them a little wave.
She lowered her voice and leaned in. âRelax. Iâm only messing with you to seem more interesting than I actually am. I meanâŚyouâre like this tall, slightly-better-than-average looking, freaking amazing artist. And Iâm just a college dropout who built her business around a trend thatâll probably be dead in three years.â
âIâm not any kind of big, amazing artist.â But then, worrying that Hannah might start to feel underwhelmed by him, he added, âBut you are correct that I was voted Most Slightly-Better-Than-Average Looking in my senior year.â
Hannah let out that big, unselfconscious laugh again, and it was like a bright light switching on. Despite Reuben being nearly double her height, Hannahâs way of inhabiting a space seemed so much bigger and fuller than his own, which tended toward benign observation and a reticence to draw attention to himself. Even now in his mid-thirties, these survival byproducts of having grown up an only child who bounced around from school to school were still ingrained.
âTruthfully, I think youâre above-average-adorable but a girlâs gotta play a little hard to get.â
Two months later, Hannah had moved into Reubenâs loft apartment, the coveted top floor of an old sewing mill overlooking the Connecticut River. Within days, sheâd claimed the sunny window seat as her morning coffee nook and cake pop âideating space.â It wasnât long before they hired a contractor to expand the kitchen to accommodate Hannahâs baking business and bring it into compliance with Connecticutâs cottage food laws. The renovation forced Reuben to shrink his painting area a little, but it meant that Hannah could sublet her kitchen rental space and use the savings to branch out into custom cookie portraits.
The trip to the Schuyler Inn was a short getaway during prime fall foliage season to celebrate the one-year anniversary of Reuben and Hannahâs not-totally-serendipitous first meeting.
âOkay, then what about witches?â Hannah asked Rosemary.
âHannah, I thinkââ Reuben tried to interrupt but Hannah kept on.
âI read somewhere that a lot of these old houses have âwitch windowsâ that go sideways, probably designed to keep witches out, but I like to imagine they were to let witches in so they could hide from the pitchfork-and-torch people.â
For a moment, Reuben caught Rosemary eye and gave a slightly pained smile, silently apologizing for his girlfriendâs doggedness. Rosemaryâs good-natured chuckle seemed aimed at reassuring him. No doubt, as an innkeeper, the woman has encountered all kinds of odd ducks.
âThatâs certainly more interesting than the truth, my dear.â She slipped a key into the lock. âBack in the day, windows were too expensive to make them custom-sized, so people just used what they had on-hand and tilted them sideways to fit the space. Thatâs just the way Vermonters do.â
Hannah turned to Reuben and discretely mimed hanging herself in response to the innkeeperâs mundane explanation.
On the far wall of the room was a tall canopy bed festooned with blue and yellow ruffled pillows. Nearer was a dresser set with a wide porcelain bowl that Reuben thought might have served as a chamber pot in its past life. There was a vase full of silk hydrangeas on one nightstand and a stack of leather-bound books on the other. Nearly every surface, including the wooden hope chest at the foot of the bed was covered in lace.
âHope youâll be cozy,â said Rosemary setting the key on the dresser. âIf you need anything between the hours of 8am and 7pm,â she rang a tinkling bell on a stand outside their door, âJust jingle.â
âThanks very much, Rosemary,â Reuben said.
Once he shut the door, Hannah hopped on the bed. âFirm. Not much bounce,â she said. âI suppose thatâll muffle the bed-knocking for the guests next door.â
For precisely that reason, Reuben had tried to persuade Hannah to book a hotel instead. Inns inflicted a weird intimacy with strangers he was never at ease with. He didnât enjoy feeling like a guest, always keeping his best manners in place, trying to be quiet even when flushing the toilet in your own room.
He straightened a doily. âItâs like someoneâs grandmother exploded in here.â
âWell, I love it,â Hannah told him. âAnd, weâve got a perfect weekend ahead of us, starting with a wild game feast tonight, a gondola ride to the top of Mt. Mansfield tomorrow morning, antiquingâduhâand a Ben & Jerryâs factory tour. Then Sunday, thereâs this river gorge not too far away where, like, a hundred people have drowned since the 1950s. Itâs called the âdeadliest place in Vermont.ââ
While Reuben didnât consider any of these things particularly âperfectâ (he would have preferred a weekend in Boston, strolling the galleries and hitting a club or two for some live music), he recognized that this weekend wasnât about him. The getaway was meant to lift Hannahâs spirits, coming out of a challenging month navigating a lawsuit threat from a bride whose party-favor cake pops, several guests pointed out, looked a lot like the groom and one of the bridesmaidsâwhoâd apparently had a romantic attachment a decade earlier. Hannahâs defense was that the two women wore the same mid-length haircut with the same highlights, and passing them on the street, one would honestly have trouble distinguishing one from the other. Still, the bride claimed mortification and emotional distress on the most important day of her life. Hannah was fully prepared to go to court, but Reuben and her lawyer persuaded her to settle, taking the high road for her business reputationâs sake. As Reuben hoped, the trip planning had lifted Hannahâs mood out of the angry funk sheâd been in.
The first evening was more enjoyable than Reuben had been expecting, starting with the wild game dinner which featured small plates of wild boar sausage, an elk chop, a rabbit skewer, and a duck taco. The sex later that night was an absurdly funny but ultimately unsuccessful exercise at keeping Hannahâs more vocal expressions at a discrete level. To Reubenâs mortification and Hannahâs delight, the neighbors raised the volume of their television in response.
Waking after midnight with an arm stinging of pins and needles, Reuben lay listening. Even with the windows closed, the river beside the inn made for a cheerful background that contrasted starkly with the urban white noise at home, which was a constant stream of passing cars and occasional train horns.
After breakfast the next morning in the cozy sunroom, Hannah was comparing itinerary notes with two couples that had traveled together from Doylestown, Pennsylvania. Reuben could feel their eyes bouncing back and forth between Hannah and him, the way strangers often sized them up as a couple, noting the contrast between her pretty petiteness and round-cheeked, rosy features, and his lanky frame topped by an unremarkable mop of brown hair. Reuben turned away, pretending to peruse the tourist literature rack.
Their dayâs plan followed exactly what Hannah had outlined, starting with a drive to the ski resort at the base of the stateâs largest peak. Behind the wheel, Reuben bent his neck low to get a full view of the mountains rolling by. The golds and oranges, flaming reds and evergreens below a flawless blue sky felt otherworldly. Connecticut had fall but not quite the widespread color overload he was experiencing now. They passed a tall, white steepled church tucked in among the foliage, so quintessential New England that it felt like a living postcard.
âWe got a perfect ten of a day,â Hannah said. âWhen my sister was here in July, it was nothing but fog and rain, rain, rain the whole time.â
The resortâs gondola ride to the top of Mt. Mansfield was a little unnerving as Reuben and Hannah and a family of four were packed into a bubble-shaped car that traveled along a cable, rising 2,000 feet just short of the mountain top. They debarked and walked out among dozens of tourists, snapping photos of each other against the panorama of fall foliage.
Reuben and Hannah were quiet as they followed a hiking trail that was supposed to lead them to the peakâs ridge line. As the terrain turned steep and more challenging, Hannahâs flats offered no ankle support and even less traction. She slipped often and once lost a shoe that Reuben had to help her dislodge from a rock crevice.
âThis is just nuts. Mountain goats hike stuff like this, not actual people,â Hannah said as a lean, tanned woman practically ran past them. âLetâs go back.â
Reuben had been excited to see the promised sweeping three hundred sixty-degree view. âWell,â he hesitated, watching the woman rock-hop up the trail like Spiderman, âIâd like to keep going. I can meet you in about an hour at the restaurant at the top of the gondola. Do you mind?â
Hannahâs expression suggested she did, in fact, mind.
He tried again, âI just think it would be a shame to come all this way and not get to the very top.â
She remained unmoved.
âI did tell you to wear sneakersâŚâ
It had been a point of contention before they left the inn, but Hannah made it clear that sneakers werenât âcute.â
âFine.â Hannah shrugged the bag off her back, more fashion accessory than backpack. âYou might as well take these.â She pulled a nearly bursting ziplock bag of trail mix and a squeezable water bottle.
âI have no place to putââ But Hannah accessed his jacketâs outer pocket for the trail mix and slid the water bottle in his inside pocket.
âPlease donât dilly-dally and daydream. We have a schedule.â
Reuben would have preferred a little more flexibility in what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend, but he would take his small victory. As Hannah headed back down, Reuben continued up, winding over rocky outcroppings and wide slabs that were tricky enough for him to realize that she had made the right decision for herself in turning back.
Though not in prime shape, Reuben maintained a steady, if a little winded, pace. When the trail finally reached the top of the ridge, he stood, eagerly taking in views in every direction for what must have been a hundred or more miles away. To the east, he could see what was likely Mount Washington in New Hampshire, and to the west, Lake Champlain laying low at the foot of the rugged Adirondacks. Everything below him was ablaze with color while the alpine environment he stood on was lichen-covered rock and scraggly evergreens. Though he would have liked to continue hiking all the way to what the map called âThe Chin,â there simply wasnât enough time to get there and back before needing to meet up with Hannah.
Moving aside for some hikers to pass, Reuben stepped onto a smooth rock face that seemed a good spot to sit and rest a moment. Now hungry, he was grateful that Hannah had foisted the trail mix and water on him.
The temperature alternated between sunny-warm and sharply chilly when strong, sudden gusts of wind kicked up and snatched at Reubenâs jacket. As he snacked, a raven dipped and glided just overhead in a way that seemed like pure joy. Reuben was alert and attuned to everything around him. For years, heâd been working only in-studio, focused on abstract-style paintings that could best be described as âaesthetically pleasingâ for the corporate environments in which they were hung. This natural, untamed setting felt like a much-needed jolt to the jadedness he had started to feel toward his work, as clients became ever more proscriptive with what they wanted from their commissioned pieces.
Reuben shifted his gaze from the wide macro view of the peak to the micro world by his feet: a fist-sized rock covered in green, black, and orange swirls of flaky lichen. Beside it was a little plant cluster whose spiked, green shoots more closely resembled sea vegetation than what Reuben had expected from high alpine flora. He reached down to a patch of moss to feel its cool, damp fur.
The quiet contemplation of the moment revived him, too. Living and working with Hannah in the same close quarters, there never seemed to be space to be alone for any kind of time. Had she continued the hike with him, even if she didnât fuss the entire way up, she would have provided running commentary, prodding him to respond when he wanted to simply admire the scenery.
He thought, How can it be that the things I adore most about Hannahâher fearlessness, the way she talks without filtering, her manic energyâare the same things that sometimes make me not want to be near her?
***
Seek & Find Antiques was one of several shops Hannah had researched. It was set back from the main tourist part of the town, down a well-maintained dirt road. It wasnât actually an antique store so much as a restored old barn that rented out space to individual dealers. Thus, the contents were relatively organized by themes, which allowed Hannah to seek out the stallsâsome of them literal stallsâthat specialized in old farmhouse kitchen goods, while Reuben gravitated to the rusty tools and farm equipment, and then eventually to an area stocked with baseball memorabilia. He picked up an old catcherâs mitt, a massive slab of leather cinched together by a worn knotted leather string. He thought about its original owner, imagining a stocky, eighteen-year-old Vermont farm boy, a catcher with a cannon of an arm who had dreams of playing in the minors. Though it felt a little like trespassing, Reuben slid his hand inside the glove, noticing how the splaying of the finger pockets, which had conformed to the ownerâs hand, felt just slightly off. A wider gap between the index and middle fingers, an awkward angle to the thumb. He thought about the sweat from the catcherâs hand, soaked layers-deep into the padding.
As an avid little leaguer and high school catcher himself, Reuben felt a warming of his thoughts as he recited in his head the names of his senior year teammates in their regular batting order: Crispin âCrispyâ Mayer, Jimmy Deegan, Bobby Alfonso, Taylor Wade, Frank Gargiulo, Reuben, Denny Partridge (âCâmon get happyâŚâ they would sing at him), Anton Bell, and Tiny Tim LaRoche.
âHow old is this?â Reuben asked the vendor, a man his fatherâs age with a thick salt and pepper mustache that seemed to animate when he talked.
âThatâd be a Goldsmith Model 181. Circa 1925. This oneâs a Leather Front Khaki Back style. Look at that pipingâitâs beautifully intact,â he ran his fingers along the edge to show. âFor a well used glove, this one was lovingly cared for. You wonât see them in this good condition too often. Not the old ones, anyway. I could let her go for a hunner-twenny-five.â
âOh?â Reuben had not been intending to buy, and in fact, wouldnât have been able to say if he thought it was worth $5 or $500. In the moment, $125 seemed like a good deal for a mint condition antique mitt. âHuh.â Then, on pure impulse, he said, âYeah. Okay. Iâll take it. Visa good?â
âVisa good.â
A couple stalls over, Hannah was eyeing a decorative muffin tin whose cups looked decidedly like six symmetrical breasts. When Reuben wandered over, she held it up to her chest and shimmied a little like a freak show stripper. He laughed then lowered her hand to set it down when the proprietor scowled. Hannah pulled him to a side table with an assortment of metal instruments.
âLook at these cake decorating tools I found. Arenât they amazing?â
âThey look like sadistic dentist tools to me. Is that a tiny saw?â
She turned to the woman who was now hovering nearby, âIâll give you thirty-five for the set.â
âTheyâre listed for fifty. Iâd say I canât come down below forty-five.â
âThirty-eight. Otherwise, Iâll just take the tiny saw.â
The woman gave a wheezy sigh. âIf you make it forty-five, Iâll throw in this butter mold.â
Hannah inspected the small wooden stamp, turning it over a few times. âFair enough,â she said and handed over the cash.
As they strolled through other sections, Reuben said, âHow do you do that?â
Hannah looked up at him with a questioning expression. âDo what?â
âBargain. I always feel soâŚnot right about it.â
âYou didnât haggle over the price of that baseball relic?â Reuben shook his head. âThatâs part of the fun of it, not just for buyers, for the sellers, too. Itâs a dance of negotiation. Plus, these vendors probably donât even pay for half their stuff. Theyâre the ones who show up just as garage sales are closing, and take anything of interest for a steal because nobody wants to make a dump run for all the crap that didnât sell.â
She stopped to pick up a blue bird made of blown glass. âSo, whatâd you pay for it?â
âItâs not important.â
âCome on.â
âSixty,â Reuben lied.
âI bet that guy paid ten bucks for it,â Hannah said. âDonât feel bad. If it brings you joy, itâs worth the hundred or more that you actually paid for it. Yeah, I see through your mistruths, mister.â
She pinched his arm, not especially gently. And again, Reuben felt an unexpected tension between contentment that she knew him well enough to see through his lie and annoyance that she assumed he was utterly predictable. No matter that he clearly was.
They continued to wander the aisles, spotlighting for each other the more unusual finds. A taxidermied weasel with its pointy bared teeth; a collapsible top hat; a cigar box filled with buttons of all shapes, colors, and sizes.
As Reubenâs pace slowed, his imagination sparked with ideas for assemblages and sculpturesâa creative medium he had all but given up in art school when he chose to specialize in painting instead. But here, these fragments of the past were just calling out for new life. One moment Reuben was imagining building a tiny birdcage out of ornate keys, then next he was staring at a polished Underwood typewriter, running his fingers over the keys, admiring how precise their roundness was, how their elegant serif strokes were like tiny letter portraits.
Between the lift of the hike and this torrent of new ideas, Reuben had to admit that the financial success he enjoyed from producing commercial art was bad at feeding his creative soul. This acknowledgement lit something inside him that felt a lot like optimism.
âHey,â Hannah tugged his sleeve, jolting his mind back to the dusty antiques barn. âThis is starting to feel like grocery shopping with my niece who stops to read every cereal box. Letâs get going. You need a shower before we head to dinner.â
Having eaten a giant waffle cone of Phish Food just a couple hours before, dinner was not an enticing prospect, but Reuben took Hannahâs outstretched hand and reluctantly left the antiques behind.
That night, as Hannah was in bed reading a hardcover she picked up about funeral practices around the world, Reuben was restless.
âI think Iâm going to take a quick walk around the property.â
âOkay but donât drown in the river. I just read that if it takes more than a day to find a body, itâll be totally bloated and that means no open casket.â
âIf that happens, you have my permission to cremate me.â
Her eyes welled up with happiness. âIâm the person who gets to handle your remains?â
âLetâs hope it doesnât come to that any time soon.â
Though his jacket was thin for the forty or so degrees outside, Reuben liked the bracing feeling it caused, keeping his muscles taught. In the quiet country night, he could tease out the sound of a single dry leaf flipping along the driveway on a breeze. He looked up to take in the clear sky of stars framed by the tops of the trees whose fading leaves filled the air with a musty sweetness. Thereâs a word for that smell, Reuben thought but he couldnât remember what it was. A car approached from up the road, getting louder, passing, and then fading. Reuben turned down a path that hugged the river, careful not to wander too close to the edge.
***
âWe should go out for breakfast,â Reuben said.
Hannah had been up for nearly twenty minutes, twittering around the room, seemingly unable to stay still. Now she was wandering as she brushed her teeth, and it took a moment for her to return to the sink to spit and rinse before responding, âWhy would we do that?â
Reuben had been thinking that he wanted to get out early to see the how the morning light bent and stretched shadows out from the trees. He wanted to take real and mental pictures to bring home into the studio. âI donât know, there are probably some cool little historic towns we can explore. Maybe an old cemetery you can wander.â
âWhile thatâs a fine idea for later,â Hannah said, âI think thereâs a gap in your understanding of the â& Breakfastâ part of this operation. Besides, I bet Rosemary has a collection of antique pancakes made by Mrs. Schuyler herself that she serves up for her favorite guests.â
Hannah pulled out one of Reubenâs shirts he didnât recall packing and smoothed it out at the foot of the bed. âI love this color on you,â she said.
He knew she was trying to nudge him out of bed, but he didnât mind. He was feeling upbeat, had even had a change of heart while dozing off the night before, deciding that his conflicting thoughts about Hannah were just the normal ebb and flow of being in a long-term relationshipâhis longest, in fact.
âHand me some underwear?â he asked her.
She rifled through the suitcase. âI also brought these cords for you.â
âIâll just wear the jeans from last night.â
âI think these will be more comfortable.â
âMore comfortable than jeans?â
Hannah brought him the pants, underwear, and a wad of socks before going back to the mirror to apply lipstick.
âSeems a little dressy for antique pancakes.â
She turned abruptly. âYou and I spend all our days wearing baking or painting clothes. Is it too much to ask that, just occasionally, we resemble the mature, successful people we are?â
It was an unexpectedly strong reaction to attire, something she attended to for herself but almost never commented on for Reuben. âOkay, if itâs that important to you.â He started to dress. âWow, you even ironed the shirt.â
âI just thought it would be nice,â Hannah said, watching his reflection in the mirror. Besides, we have a big day ahead of us.â
âWe do?â
âOh, I just mean, you know, making the most of our last day here.â
In the dining room, sunlight reflected off the yellow and white tablecloths so brightly it took a moment for Reubenâs eyes to adjust. The Pennsylvania travelers Hannah had chatted with the day before were already seated for breakfast. At another table was a young couple that looked barely out of college, noteworthy for the fact that their hands seemed fused together, so that other efforts like spreading jam or pouring and stirring cream were impressively achieved single-handedly.
Rosemary, dressed in a buttery yellow cardigan that matched the roomâs decor, delivered Reuben and Hannah a couple glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.
âI hope everyone slept well!â
âLike a corpse that was not murdered,â Hannah said.
âHow nice,â said Rosemary, her grandmotherly smile not quite reaching her eyes.
After she returned to the kitchen, Reuben said to Hannah. âYou did seem to sleep well. Better than you have in a while. Maybe getting away was just the thing to move on from the whole crazy bride thing.â
âOh that?â Hannah laughed lightly. âYeah, she wasnât crazy.â
âNot crazy. Thatâs a poor choice of words, right? Paranoid. Maybe a little insecure about her groomâs long-term fidelity?â
Hannahâs big blue eyes searched his trying to suss out his meaning.
âWait. What do you thinkâŚOh! Oh my god, you thoughtâŚI thought you knew. This whole time, I thought you knew!â She pressed her fingers to her lips. âThatâs hilarious!â
âKnew what?â
She leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, âYou thought it actually was a coincidence?â
âThe bridesmaid thing?â
âYeah.â
âIt wasnât?â
Hannah scrunched her face affectionately at him. âYou must really love me to think that.â
âWhat do you mean, Hannah?â
âYou think Iâm a better person than I actually am. Thatâs really sweet.â
Reuben opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then said, âIt was on purpose? You ruined that womanâs wedding on purpose?â
âA) I didnât ruin it. It was a perfectly lovely wedding. And B) In every meeting, she was completely horrid to her mother, her sister, the caterer, me. As if everyone was there solely to please her.â
âWell, it was her wedding.â
She continued as if she hadnât heard Reuben. âAnd her husband was so lovely. He totally belonged with that bridesmaid instead. Youâre looking at me funny.â
âHow did you even know what she looked like?â
âSocial media stalking, duh.â She took in a giant mouthful of pancake and spoke around it. âReally, itâs not a big deal. Even though I didnât think I should, I took your sound advice and settled. The end. She was compensated and will live happily ever after for the next year or so before her husband realizes sheâs a twat, and they get divorced.â
âHere we are!â Rosemary delivered two plates, each arranged with two large pancakes topped with a melting pat of butter. On the side was a sausage patty and a cozy mound of sliced fresh fruit.
Hannah poured an absurd amount of maple syrup on her pancakes as if she hadnât just confessed to acting with malicious intent and lying about it. Processing what heâd just learned, Reuben picked at the fruit pile, spearing a single grape and chewing it slowly and deliberately, followed by a pale green melon ball.
Hannah was half-way finished with her plate when she observed, âYou havenât touched your pancakes. Are you mad at me?â
Mad wasnât the right word but Reuben wasnât sure what was. âNo, Iâm not. I just think, maybe, even if she was a jerk, it doesnât mean you should have been, too.â
Hannah squeezed her eyes shut, âOh god. Youâre disappointed in me. Thatâs so much worse than being pissed off.â She took his two hands in hers and held them tightly. âYouâre right. It was a shitty thing to do. But maybe sometimes, Reuben, standing up for yourself is important, too. That bride was so dismissive. At every meeting, she looked right through me like I wasnât even there. And when she did talk to me it was loud and slow, like I was stupidâactually worse, like one of those automated phone systems. Made me feel so small.â She loosened her grip but didnât let go. âThe bridesmaid pop was just my little act of subversion. I really didnât think anyone would notice.â
This was a rare moment of quiet vulnerability for Hannah. Reuben knew if he let go of her hands, she would make some wisecrack that would undermine everything sheâd just told him, and he just wanted to stay in this moment with this Hannah, so he gently rubbed her knuckles and said, âI guess I can understand that.â
She took a relieved breath. âYou are my love. I couldnât bear you thinking less of me.â
Rosemary waltzed into the room with a pot held high. âWho wants more coffee?â
Cups around the dining room were raised as if in a toast to the coffee bearer. Hannah excused herself to head up to the bathroom, squeezing past Rosemary who was flitting from table to table filling cups like a human pollinator. Reuben took a few bites of pancake without really tasting them. His mind was lingering on the cake pop bride. He really did understood where Hannah was coming from; heâd worked with enough clients that behaved as if the people around them were the worldâs extras, whose presence was tolerated only for what momentary usefulness they offered. But what nagged at Reuben was an uneasy acknowledgment that heâd wholeheartedly believed Hannahâs explanation, despite all the reasons he had to be at least a little skeptical.
When Hannah returned, Reuben was puzzled to find she had swapped her twill trousers for a calf-length navy blue dress heâd never seen her wear before.
âIs everything okay?â He asked her.
âEverything is wonderful,â she smiled at him.
When Hannah got down on one knee beside him, Reuben broke out in a sudden, itchy sweat from scalp to armpits to the back of his knees. âHannah, what are you doing?â He whispered as the ambient noise of chatter and clanking silverware suddenly silenced.
âReuben Anthony Downes,â she said with a quiet calm.
Oh no, no, no, no, Reuben thoughtâa record, stuck and skipping in his head, but out loud, all he said was, âShh, shhh, shhh,â as if to quiet her so maybe no one in the room would hear what she had to say next, which was, of course, absurd because he could feel the intensity of everyoneâs stares, eager to be part of this public private moment. One of the women had even pulled out her phone to record.
Hannah held out an open velvet box, not with a ring but with shiny silver menâs watch. âWill you marry me?â Coming from Hannah, it did not feel like a question; it felt like a pronouncement: âYou will marry me.â
Her focus on their anniversary. The precisely planned weekend getaway. The strange behavior about his clothes. How had he not even had a whiff of this coming? His mind answered, because, until now, marrying Hannah hadnât even registered with Reuben. It was clear that even after a year living together, he was still puzzlingâand strugglingâwith understanding this, mostly, wonderfully weird woman.
Could he marry her? He certainly could. Would he now, or a year from now, or five years? He didnât know. But perhaps the most important question was, should he?
Those swimming pool eyes were enormous and pleading, ready to swallow him whole if he didnât say yes right that very second.
Reubenâs slack jaw open and closed but offered no actual words. Hannah popped up, a sprung jack-in-the-box, and shouted to the room, âAndâŚscene!â She took a little bow and spun to face everyone, a rigor mortis grin frozen on her face. âHope you enjoyed our little piece of performance art.â
Rosemary looked simultaneously concerned and dubious. A man with a silver crew cut started clapping lightly, which invited the others at his table to offer their tepid, confused clapping. More than anything, Reuben wanted to grab Hannah by the hand and pull her from the room but she was determined to sit back down in her seat and pretend everything was fine.
Everything was not fine. Reuben could see a tempest roiling behind her smiling countenance, and, it scared him.
âHannah, Iââ
âDonât.â
âBut Iââ
âStill donât.â She lifted her coffee mug and held it under her nose, blocking her words so only Reuben could hear them. âYou just annihilated me.â
He matched her discretion by fixing his elbows on the table and covering his mouth with his fists. âI had no idea you were going to do that.â
âThatâs how itâs done!â She shout-whispered at him. âItâs supposed to be a surprise.â
âWe had never even talked about it.â
âDo you not want to marry me?â
Reubenâs hesitation was like a manifest presence, something pulsing with mass and heat. Finally, mercifully, he said, âI donât know.â
Hannah closed her eyes a moment. He couldnât tell if she was fighting tears or trying to pretend she was somewhere else.
Reuben lowered his voice, stuttering with unease. âIâI justâIâI feel like maybe there are maybe some things I need to do.â
âThings you need to do? Like things without me?â
Again Reuben said, âI donât know,â which once said out loud, sounded painfully like âyes.â
Her head started nodding tightly as if to a fast rhythm in her head. âYou have things you need to do. I get it. I do. You have to do what you have to do. People have to do what people have to do, Reuben.â And with those words, she lifted her fork and drove it straight down into Reubenâs hand.
Reuben let out a howl of shocked pain. In an instant, one of the Pennsylvania men (an ex-Marine, it later turned out), crossed the room and caught Hannah in a bear-hug before dragging her out of the room.
The fork was standing straight up, fully embedded in the fleshy part between the thumb and forefinger on the back of Reubenâs left hand.
Reuben could feel the edges of his vision blur as someone, the college-looking guy (a nurse-in-training, it later turned out), held one hand firmly on his shoulder and the other on his forearm, telling him, âHang on, youâre ok. Rosemary went to get bandages.â
âWhereâs Hannah?â Reuben asked.
âSheâs in another room. Youâre safe. Sheâs not going to hurtââ
âI need to see herââ
âWe have to take care of this firstâŚWhatâs your name?â
âItâs Reuben,â Rosemary said, briskly striding over with a big first aid box.
âOK, Reuben, my name is George. Iâd shake your hand, butâŚâ He laughed nervously as Reubenâs eyes teared from the pain. âReuben, Iâm going to need to remove the fork so we can get you fixed up.â
It was surreal, both the image of the upright fork and the experience of looking down at his own hand as if it werenât really real.
âI think heâs in shock,â someone said.
âLooks like she forked him real good,â someone else side-mumbled.
âOn the count of three, Reuben.â
George lied, quickly pulling the fork out after âone.â
âHoly MOTHER of FUCK!â
There was surprisingly little blood coming from the forkâs four neat punctures. George inspected the wound while Reuben took quick, shallow breaths.
âReuben, do you know if she had eaten from the fork before she stabbed you?â
âI donât know. Yeah, yes, she was eating pancakes.â
Someone asked indiscreetly, âCan you get maple syrup poisoning?â
George said, âYou should probably get a tetanus shot.â
In the meantime, Rosemary set his hand in a bowl of warm water. âThereâs some Castile soap in there, which is antibacterial.â
âIsnât all soap antibacterial?â someone asked.
âWell, soap can be effective in getting rid of bacteria, butââ
âI need to see Hannah,â Reuben said again, his voice croaking.
Rosemary nodded to a person behind him and he heard the door open and close as they left the dining room.
âYouâll want to see a doctor to make sure thereâs no nerve damage,â said George.
Reubenâs chest tightened and said, âItâs my painting hand.â
Rosemaryâs eyes softened in sympathy. âYouâll be okay, hon.â As she gently dried Reubenâs hand, the door opened again. Georgeâs girlfriend spoke in a low voice to someone, but all Reuben heard was the word âgone.â
âWait, she left?â Reuben croaked.
âYeah. She grabbed a bag and took off,â Georgeâs girlfriend said. âShe said she wonât be back and doesnât want to see yourâŚfucking fat face ever again. She told me to tell you thatâI donât think your face is fat; itâs actually kind of oblong. Anyway, Gary says he can call the police if you want to press charges.â
âIâm not pressing charges.â
Rosemary put a hand on his shoulder, âMaybe you want to take just a few minutes to think aboutââ
âIâm not pressing charges.â Reuben said. He added, âIâm really sorry for the drama, everyone.â
âMakes for a great story to tell people back home.â
Reubenâs hand was pounding cartoonishly. Stabbing pain, he thought, nearly laughing out loud. âRosemary, can I trouble you for a glass of water? Also, I may need to stay a few more nights.â
âOf course, youâll stay as long as you need.â
George lightly secured a bandage with surgical tape. âHell of a break up, man,â he said as he stood up.
I suppose it could have been worse, Reuben thought. Because somewhere deep in the tangle and turmoil of all the feelings he was experiencingâastonishment, regret, anger, worry, and pain, visceral painâwas the kind of thrill that comes from an ending about to become a beginning.
[End Chapter 1]
Amy Klingerâs second novel, Ducks on the Pond, begins with two incidents that could set the stage for a black comedy. The prologue recounts a softball game marred by a minor violation of sportsmanship, which then devolves into a brawl. In chapter one, Reuben Downes, who is also guilty of precipitating the afore-mentioned brawl, declines his girlfriendâs very public, bent-knee marriage proposal. In retaliation, she skewers his hand with a fork.
At this point, readers might expect a ribald narrative peppered with cartoon violence. This isnât that kind of novel. Instead, Klinger uses negative circumstance as a springboard to character growth.
The site of the fork incident was the Schuyler Inn in Orrville, Vermont. Rather than immediately returning to the ânumbing comfort of his old life,â Reuben stays in Orrville while convalescing, then decides to remain permanently. His place in the community is sealed when he joins the eccentric gang on a local softball team.
A professional artist, principally a painter, Reuben uses this opportunity to âtake stock of his career, prodding deeper at the tenor of dissatisfaction with his commercial art business.â He decides to try working in sculpture for a needed diversion. Adrian, a local gallery owner, supports his muse, becoming his professional representative, and his lover.
On a scavenging mission for materials to use in sculptures, Reuben discovers, in an old barn, an exquisite, ânearly life-sized carving of Jesus casting a mournful expression.â Months later, when searching for something to use as a scarecrow in his garden, Reuben dresses Jesus in tattered clothes and erects the Son of God to guard vegetables. The display attracts unwanted attention from citizens in Orrville, some of whom consider it blasphemy, and others who bow before it in prayer. In part due to controversy over the scarecrow, stress develops in his relationship with Adrian.
Subsequent events create moments where Reuben is challenged to defend his artistic freedom, affirm his place in the community, risk new relationships, and come to the aid of a family in need.
Fluidly written in the third person from Reubenâs droll and self-effacing, as well as introspective point of view, the narrative addresses complex themes, like the role of an artist in society, with insight and empathy. Klinger depicts Reuben with an understated dexterity that, even when it strays into dark areas, serves to disarm conflicts and affirm values. A book club would find much to discuss here.