The first Saturday

On Saturday at nine in the morning, Eric got dressed in jeans and a black dress shirt and left the house without anybody noticing. Jo-Ann was sitting on the back porch drinking and Michael was in his room watching TV. He couldn't stand his wife's drinking and as she spent all weekend drinking he spent all weekend in his room. Eric made the walk to Sam's house turning over the same thoughts in his mind that he'd been having all week about the many ways in which the day could end in disaster. At no point though did he give serious thought to turning around and going back home, because Sam was different, his reasons for keeping his distance from other people didn't apply to her, she was the one person he'd met so far whom he felt he could safely give the benefit of the doubt to.

He arrived at the house that matched the description that Sam gave him, and it was here that he was assailed by an intense attack of anxiety that he had been expecting for days but had heretofore failed to materialize. He stood at the gate that led into Sam's property needing only to press the button on the intercom, a step that suddenly felt like too much, while the thought of retreating and returning to his hermitic existence grew increasingly appealing.

“Eric,” came Sam’s voice unexpectedly through the intercom speaker. She had been sitting by the window and looking out onto the street waiting for his arrival and when she saw him standing by the gate looking like he was wavering she knew that she had to do something before he left.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“I’ll buzz you in.”

Sam answered the door wearing a pair of pale blue jeans and a white t-shirt with her hair pulled back into the same ponytail he remembered from their first meeting. Looking at Sam, Eric felt overdressed and self-conscious. Looking at Eric, Sam felt underdressed and self-conscious.

“Hi,” Sam said, as normally as she could manage.

“Hi,” Eric responded tentatively.

A brief silence of uncertainty materialized between them then. It lasted until Sam recovered her composure and invited Eric to enter. Sheepishly he stepped across the threshold and walked past her into the house. Sam closed the door behind him and there they were, facing the improbable together.

“Nice house,” Eric said shakily upon entering. Everything about Sam's house, on the inside and the outside, was nicer than his.

“Thanks. Say, do you want something to drink or something?”

Uncertain as to acceptable social protocol, Eric weighed the question with more consideration than was necessary.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Juice?” She asked nervously, seeking specificity.

“Yeah, juice is fine.”

Sam left Eric in the living room and went into the kitchen, not only to pour his juice but also to compose herself. Eric had been there less than five minutes and already she was feeling overwhelmed by tension. Meanwhile in the living room a similar situation was playing out. Eric was looking around at all of the furniture and decor touches and felt his anxiety rising at the thought of the existence of a quality divide between them. His thoughts were interrupted by Sam entering the living room carrying a glass of juice for him. She handed the glass to him, and the dreaded time for engaging in real conversation was upon them.

“Does your mother work every Saturday?” Eric led with.

“Yeah, she’s a nurse at St Augustine’s, she goes in on Saturdays for the overtime.”

Looking around at their house, Eric couldn't see how their financial situation could be such that Sam's mother would need to give up her Saturdays to earn overtime pay.

“How about your mom; what does she do?”

“She works at a car dealership, though I don't know what she does there, but on Saturdays she drinks."

“What? Your mom drinks every Saturday?”

“Friday, Saturday and Sunday, and sometimes Monday, but that’s only sometimes.”

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"Is your mother like an alcoholic or something?" Sam asked cautiously.

"Yeah, she is," Eric answered nonchalantly.

Unprepared for a confession of that enormity so soon Sam was at a loss for how to respond. The awkward silence returned, brought about by Eric's surprising disclosure, making it his responsibility to end it.

“Is that a piano in that room?” He asked finally, having noticed and become curious about it earlier.

“Yeah, do you play?” She asked enthusiastically.

“No, I don't; do you?”

“I can play,” Sam answered bashfully.

“Are you any good?” Eric prodded, curious about her abilities.

“Reasonably good, considering that I'm self-taught.”

Then another silence while Sam weighed whether to play for him. The only person she had ever played for was her mother and her praise was hardly objective. Sam wasn't confident enough to play for Eric without first giving it serious thought, but since he had taken her into his confidence about his mother’s alcoholism she felt she owed him an important insight into her life as well.

“Do you want me to play for you?” She asked guardedly.

“Okay.”

Sam walked shakily to the room that used to serve as her father's study, followed just as shakily by Eric, who was afraid that if Sam turned out to be a skilled pianist it would be further proof of the quality divide between them that he had perceived. The piece that Sam decided she’d play was Beethoven’s Fure Elise, a piece she had practiced so much she could literally play it with her eyes closed. Watching Sam playing had the exact effect on Eric that he feared it would have, and when she was done, he could think of nothing he could say to her that wouldn't sound stupid.

“That was amazing,” he said, feeling as stupid as he thought he would.

“Thanks,” Sam responded, “It’s really not that impressive, it’s a minor Beethoven piece, popular among amateurs, any beginner could play it.”

Eric couldn't immediately tell if Sam's modesty was false or genuine. After a couple of seconds, he realized that of course it was genuine.

“Who taught you to play like that?” He asked her.

“My father started teaching me when I was younger, but since he died I’ve been teaching myself.”

“How did your father die?”

“He died in a car accident, seven years ago.”

“Sorry,” Eric said feebly. Sensitivity didn’t come naturally to him.

“It’s okay, it was seven years ago. Listen, I’m feeling like a cup of tea, you want anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Sam went into the kitchen and made her tea, and while she was there she reflected on her disclosure to Eric of her father's death and whether she had been too baleful and had made Eric feel uncomfortable. She carried her tea into the living room and found Eric sitting on the sofa working on the geometry homework that she had abandoned earlier. She had abandoned because her stress over today had made it impossible for her to think straight, not because it was difficult for her. She walked lightly across the living room and sat down next to Eric on the sofa. She looked over at the notepad that he was working in and saw that he was using a different method to solve the five circle diagram that she had stopped at, but one which she could see was more efficient than the method that she had been using.

“Doing my homework for me, I didn’t know we were there yet.”

“Sorry, I was just curious because we haven’t gotten to diagrams this complicated yet in geometry.”

“That's because that's next year’s math, it's from my accelerated math class.”

“You’re in an accelerated math class?” He asked, perturbed.

“Yeah, and apparently you should be too.”

Eric didn't respond. He placed the notepad down on the coffee table and contemplated for a moment all that he had learned about Sam in the short time that he had been here with her. Her skill on the piano had confirmed his suspicion of the existence of a divide between them, the fact that she was in an accelerated math class was further proof of that and the final piece of evidence that he had identified when he had been alone and looking around was sitting on the coffee table next to where he had set the notepad.

"Is this yours?" He asked, holding the Terms of Endearment that she had been reading the previous night.

"Yeah, that's my favorite book, I’m busy reading it for the third time. How about you, what’s your favorite novel?”

“I don’t read,” Eric responded tersely.

"Oh, okay."

"All of those books on the shelves in the room with the piano, are those also yours?"

"They were my father's, but I've read most of them."

"I see."

Eric couldn't take it anymore. Everything in this house served as a reminder of the fact that Sam was too good for him. He had to get out of there, before he was swallowed whole by his anxiety and feelings of inferiority he had to get out of there.

“Sam I have to go,” he said, feeling horrible.

“What?” Sam asked, devastated.

“Yeah, I just remembered that I've got stuff to do, so I need to go."

"Oh, erm, okay," Sam answered, crestfallen.

Desperate to leave the house as quickly as possible Eric got up from the sofa and made for the door. Her head spinning, Sam followed Eric to the door. Try as she might she couldn't comprehend what could have happened to cause such an extreme reaction from Eric, and the time that it took for them to get from the sofa to the front door wasn't enough for her to work out what she should do next, the only thing she could do was ask him the question that had taken over her mind in the wake of his sudden flight.

"Are you going to come back next week?"

Looking into Sam's trembling and vulnerable eyes, Eric saw what his retreat was doing to her and it made him feel sick with himself, so sick that the thought of not coming back and hurting her more than he already had was unthinkable. He assured her that he would come back next week and left, wishing with each step he took that he had stayed.