OBSESSION-By Amido A.

Vinuya

The weatherman had predicted wet snow when they drove out to Lake Chenango. They had not planned
on it. It was an impulse on his part. Failing to see what he was looking for in Hamilton, he asked her,
since they were only a few miles away, if she wanted to go to Phil's cottage, to which she agreed. He had
told her once about Phil's cottage, to which she agreed. He had told her once about Phil’s cottage where
he had been spending weekends to get away from the city.

The roads were slushy and slippery, and patches of fog littered the deep valleys. It took them more than
an hour. In good weather it would take only about forty minutes to get there.

“Is that the lake?” she asked, pointing to a place at the foot of the valley that looked like a huge basin
where nothing could be seen but thick fog hovering above it.

"Yes", he replied, glancing at where he remembered the lake was. The meager road, which snaked down
toward and around the lake, was covered with snow and ice, so that he had to place his foot lightly on
the brake pedal to keep the Cutlass Supreme at a crawling pace of ten miles an hour.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up into a driveway and the tires crunched ice and snow. Stopping a few
feet from the shed, he shifted to "park" and snapped off the ignition and the car vibrated for one very
quick moment. A sailboat and an aluminum boat looking like dead whales, were in the shed, and two
Johnson outboard motors, one large and one small, sat in the corner as if in vigil over the whales. He
could feel the snow bite into his feet as he waded to the corner of the shed where he knew the keys to
the cottage would be.

"They are here," he gladly told her as the icy metal touched his fingers.

He unlocked the door, and the tomblike chill of the cottage and a smell of paint and turpentine met
them. The curtains were drawn. He flicked on the lights and immediately a young woman’s face with an
expression of surprise and embarrassment, her body nude and unfinished, stared from a canvas leaning
against the wall. Jasmine, who seemed embarrassed too walked to the painting and remarked: “It is„,
beautiful.” “Thank you." He said as he went to the kitchen to get the matches “Who’s she? she asked
examining the painting.

“I don't know, really.” he said, trying to light up the pilot lamp of the heater. “l’m still working on it."
Realizing that the gas must have been turned off, he went to the rear of the cottage where the two gas
cylinders stood snugly against the wall like twin snowmen. He scraped off the ice and snow that covered
their heads and turned on the valve and went back in. Although he tried severed times, it seemed he
had forgotten how to light up the pilot lamp.

“Oh, Homer, I’m cold.” she said, wrapping her arms around her. There was a hint of impatience in her
voice.

He pretended not to have heard her. He went to the bathroom and found an electric heater and
discovered three more in the bathroom. He took two of them, placed them about six feet apart, facing
each other, in the living room and plugged them in. They sat on the floor between the heaters.

After a while, he asked: “Are you still cold?'" "No, I got stereo heat already," she smiled. “But there’s no
water. I want to make some coffee." "The water pump must have been turned off too." he said. “I’ll go
down to the lake and get some,”

With the water from the lake, she made some coffee. Then Homer discovered there was no sugar on the
shelves. But he found a half-filled bottle of sweet wine.

"This is the most horrible coffee I've ever made," Jasmine said, after taking a sip from his cup. "I think I'll
just have wine. It will warm me up. too." In his mind he agreed that it was the worst coffee, aggravated
by the wine in it, he ever had. However, in order not to offend her, he feigned that he liked it.

"How can you stand it?" she asked. "It's good," he lied. He watched her as she stood up to turn on the
radio on top of a wall cabinet in the corner of the living room. He reached for one of the pads on the
 sofa bed and placed it under his head and stretched on the floor, while Jasmine sat like a yogi beside
him. "You don't get tired sitting that way?" "No, I'm used to it." "She took another sip of her wine. "Is
this supposed to be Carmela's cottage?" He nodded, smiling.

"It's a nice place." "Yes, it is." "Have you brought your wife here?" "No." She stopped talking. He took
her hand and her eyes shot to his, and for a while it seemed that she had stopped breathing. Her hand
was perspiring.

“This...this is a good place for you to write," she managed to say. "Maybe you could come down here
next month when your termination comes and finish your book."

"A good idea, but it would make me miserable." "Why?" The innocence in her eyes bothered him and it
stabbed deeper. "Bring your stereo and buy enough groceries to last you for about a month so you
won't have to worry you get snowed in."

"I don't think it's feasible." "Why not?" "Because I would have to report every week to the
unemployment office to pick-up my unemployment check. You want me to starve?" He was smiling.

"Oh, that's right," she said. "But if you had a medical certificate saying that you can't travel because of a
consumptive disease or something..."

"Maybe. But I don't know any doctor who would risk his neck for a poor guy like me." "Oh, damn the
bureaucracy!" Her hand began to perspire more. He could sense some kind of fear in her hand.

"Are you afraid of me?" "No," she replied. "But I get nervous sometimes." "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to
make you feel that way. I want you to trust me."

“That’s all right," she said. “How's your novel coming along?” "Oh, I’ve finished maybe a hundred pages
or so." "Have You brought Robin to this cottage?" she asked. "Yes." "When?" "Today.

She fell silent looking away from him toward the radio. "Oh, detest religious programs. She stood up and
turned the dial to another program. Sitting again, she said: "I thought Moira was 'Robin'?

"Robin is not fluffy." She laughed. "I'll tell her that." He smiled, and then he sat up and asked: "May I kiss
you, 'Robin," He felt ridiculous. She hesitated. "Yes, but only on the cheek." "Oh, Robin," he said as he
brought his mouth to her cheek. The hair that partly concealed her face smelled of fresh shampoo.

"I'm not 'Robin', Homer," she reminded him. "I'm Jasmine." "I know. But to me you're not 'Robin',
because I molded her after you." "That's just an obsession." "Maybe, but I know I am in love with you."
"You can't truly be in love with me," she said. "I'm a punk. Besides, what about your commitment to
your wife? "

"I'm not in love with your past, and I have no commitment to anyone, not even my wife," he said, almost
irritated. Then he added: "I don't know what has come over me, but when I began writing again, I began
to avoid you as much as I could." He felt more ridiculous.

"Is that why you've been nasty to me in the office lately?" she asked quickly. "No, I was never nasty to
you, not at all," he murmured. Breathing quickly, he kissed her eyes, her ear, and her neck. He could
smell the stale wine and coffee bouncing from his breath.

“0h, Homer, please stop it" she protested, gently. "I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”

He stopped kissing her, then withdrew, watching her eyes. Her eyes were wet, perhaps because she felt
like crying. “Please, let's go. It's getting dar.”

Not saying a word, he pulled out the plugs of the heaters and returned them to the bedrooms and
bathroom. Are you sore, Hom?” “No.” He did not look at her. You, too, are a bitch, he thought. Just like
my wife.

Rossanna, wife of Homer, even while they were going steady, had always wanted to be free. She was a
very stubborn girl, yet tender and pliable sometimes. Her family did not approve of the marriage to him,
but Rossanna's stubbornness triumphed. She had seemed happy for a while. Their first night together
was something he could not forget. They quarreled instead of making love. "I don't really love your she
blurted out as he was trying to make love to her. “I just wanted to defy my parents. I wanted to be free
of them, of everybody."

“And me?" "Yes! And your Her voice was loud in the motel room. So they went back to her town. He left
her on the doorstep of their house, like a bottle of milk, and drove away without a word. A month later,
she called up and told him that her parents wanted to see him. They had agreed on the pill. Which she
would take for a year.

“And destroy my body?” she said when he asked her to stop taking the pills so that they could have a
child. “But we had agreed that you’d take the,m only for a year and stop,” he said.

“I have freedom of choice, remember?” she shot back. “All right.” He said with finality in his voice,
“you’re free. If it does not mean a thing to you, you’re free.” Three years without Rossanna is a long
time dying, he thought.

“When are you going to let me read your novel?” she asked three days later at the office. “I don’t know.
I’ve not finished it yet,” he said, trying to look busy with a memo. “You’re nasty again, Homer,” she said.
“Why?” “I’m not.” “You’ve been ignoring me since this morning.” “I’ve not.” When she saw Moira
coming, she said, “Do you have something for me to do?” “Will you type this memo please.” “Glad to,
sir.” Moira mocked, going out of the room. “What’s wrong with Jasmine?” Moira asked. “She looked
upset or something.” “I don’t know. I did not ask her.”

Their relationship had become more than businesslike: it was cold and stereotyped. Then Homer’s
termination came. On this last day at the office, Jasmine did not come to work.

For the rest of the day her absence bothered him a lot, nurtured in uneasiness and impatience. The Red
Quail on Montgomery Street, two blocks from his room, which for more than a year had served to tease
and torture him each time he walked by, now succeeded in swallowing him up. What began as one
innocent drink ended with one-too-many.

Coming home at two in the morning, he had to hold on to the rail as he climbed the three flights of stairs
to his room. His head swam like a fish. The uneasiness and impatience grew into an ache, mingled with
their separation.

There was still a pain in his head as he drove out to Phil’s cottage that night. He wanted to finish the
painting, to see how she would look like.

“Yes, who are you?” he said staring at the canvas, “I’ll know, I’ll free you too.” Days later. The sky was
clear for a while and the sun flooded the living room. What a strange day in winter, he thought as he
looked out and saw the lake, feeling alive.

“I’ve freed you,” he said, his eyes fixed on the painting. “It’s now your turn to free me!”

•••

"I admire this guy, whoever he was," the sheriff remarked. 'The refrigerator has a stock of food, but it
seems he never touched it. He's all skin and bones." "Yeah," the other man said. "But look at his eyes,
they seem to be smiling. Like those of the girl in the painting.