Red Doesn’t Mean It’s a Viable Valentine Gift

Terry Donnelly

Valentine’s Day strikes fear in my heart. I know it’s supposed to be a day for expressing love and devotion, but I have exhibited behaviors in the past that, with all the best of intentions, have fallen far short of expectations.

Pat and I had been dating only a month or two when February 14 rolled around. This was 44 years ago. Even then, neither of us were spring chickens. We had both been married before and were going into this relationship with eyes wide open. I knew there was a bar that needed to be reached, I just didn’t know how high that bar had been raised.

Here is what went through my mind all those years ago as I thought through this dilemma:

“I know I need to get her something. A card. Yes, a card is good. I’m clever as all get out, so I’ll get a blank one and write something witty like ‘Roses are red and violets are purple. I like you better than maple surple.’ That’s perfect.”

With the card checked off my list, I took a deep breath, struck the lotus position, and ventured into musing about a gift. I quickly determined that a gift was necessary, but this relationship was neither long term nor committed at this point. I didn’t want to send any false messages.

Lingerie was out. Flowers? Always good, but too predictable. Chocolate? I did know that she loved chocolate, but wasn’t one for the heart-shaped box of a Whitman’s Sampler. She was hard-core and would prefer a block of Baker’s dark chocolate–the kind with which one usually cooks. She could just gnaw off a chunk to go along with our evening Cabernet. But, going to the baking aisle of the Kroger store for her gift didn’t seem quite right. 

Then a thunderbolt of inspiration hit me. I had been spending time hanging out at her house. We were teachers and we did a lot of lesson planning and grading papers at home in the evenings. Once, when stuck on a word (this was way before we owned smart-phones and the internet), I inquired as to the whereabouts of her dictionary. Unbelievably, she had none.

Eureka! That’s it!  I’d hit upon the perfect gift–a dictionary. This was well thought through–what could go wrong? I’d even buy her a red one just to kick up the romance a notch or two.

I was so proud–something practical, noncommittal, and well within my price range.

Off to the local book emporium I trotted whistling a tune. I think it was the song from Mary Poppins, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”. I could sing it. I couldn’t spell it, but I soon would by putting my perfect gift to work! All was right with my world.

I bought the brightest red book I could find and wrapped it using my best folding techniques, just like Mother taught. A bow and the clever card were added to make a fine presentation.

The day came and I was light hearted––dare I say giddy? I was a man without fear on Valentine’s Day for the first time in years.

The second the light of my life and subject of Bobby Helms’ 1957 hit, “You are My Special Angel” hefted the beautifully wrapped gift and realized it wasn’t a box from Nordstrom’s, her eyes changed from glistening with anticipation to narrow slits riveted across the table burning through to my core.

I felt the first bead of perspiration on my brow.

“Wow! A dictionary. How sweet.”

Her flat tone told me all I needed to know. My good intentions were for naught.

I haven’t lived down that faux pas. It took us three more years to marry and we have been in wedded bliss for 41 years. Every once in a while, over the course of our four-plus decades together I hear Tess True-Love speaking under her breath. I always take the bait and play Charlie Brown to her Lucy, asking her to repeat.

“What was that Dear?”

The answer is always the same, “You got me a dictionary!?”

We kept that tome until just a few years ago when my thoughtful wife bought me a new, unabridged version for my birthday. The bright red cover had worn away from the spine of the old one revealing the brown, cross thatch of webbing that secures the pages. Several bundles of those pages had separated and in forty-some years a number of new words had been added to the English language.  It was past time to replace the first gift I ever gave her.

That old dictionary can be found on the book exchange shelf in the Oasis Country Club members’ lounge in Mesquite, Nevada. It sits on display as everlasting testimony to all good and true intentions gone awry.

 

 

 

 Spaghetti Thanksgiving

Terry Donnelly

 

The elevator ride exposed the lie. Our invitation indicated the Thanksgiving celebration would be on the 14^th floor of the Panorama Condominium Tower. I’d only lived in Colorado for three months, so receiving an invitation to the posh and historic downtown Denver building, which promised impressive views of my freshly adopted and still riveting Colorado Rocky Mountain Front Range, was worth the anxious doubt of going to a party with a couple dozen people I had never seen or knew little.

I was included on the invitation as the ‘other’ attending with my newly minted, just four months earlier, wife, Karla. We had been dating and getting serious about each other in Porter, the small Michigan town in which we both taught elementary school––her, music; me, third and fourth grade––when she made a move to Boulder for an academic year to matriculate, earning a Master of Music Education degree while also studying piano performance with a renowned maestro on the faculty of the University of Colorado. I stayed behind teaching my third and fourth-graders while maintaining and fine-tuning our long-distance relationship. After her graduation at the end of the school year, Kar accepted a position on the university’s faculty to teach her adviser’s music education classes and assist the professor on the textbook she was authoring during a sabbatical leave. We decided to nix the separation, married in Karla’s hometown in Michigan during the summer, then moved to Boulder a few weeks later.

Over the years, my stock answer to the oft asked question: “How did you end up in Colorado?” is always: “Chasing a woman.”

Kar is my pet name for my dear wife. I’m not much for sugary, sappy pet names like “Honey” or “Baby.” I tried “Kitten” once and that was good, but I expended that name on an ex-girlfriend and thought dusting it off for Karla was both tacky and risky. Calling her Kar was my attempt at intimacy early on in our relationship. The first time I used it she looked at me like I had stabbed her. She thought I was equating her to an automobile. Her reaction made me panic, thinking I had committed an irreversible faux pas. I frantically tried to explain. Apparently, she found my extreme groveling endearing and decided she liked it after all. Shortly after, in an effort to inject some variety and add a bit of teasing to our relationship, I tried calling her “Plymouth” and “Edsel” a couple of times but that was a bridge too far. So, I decided to quit going for a laugh and be happy I had a moniker for her of which she approved. My advice to others communicating with her is simply this: Call her Karla. 

I was along for the ride to Colorado. Karla had a job and had been enlisted to assist with writing a textbook. I took a leave of absence from the Porter School District but had no job waiting in Boulder.  I began a search, interviewed with several districts, and soon found a great, new job teaching sixth grade in a progressive Colorado school district that seemed to be interested in going forward with educational excellence and not stand pat and turn stale with the same old pedagogy techniques. 

This was exciting because the Michigan school district I just left, may have had a concerned and eager community that I enjoyed socially––after all, Karla and I met there––but lacked academic oomph. The upper schools were progressive enough, especially the middle school, which thoughtfully grouped kids in creative, age-appropriate pods and offered a variety of learning opportunities. A few years earlier, Porter’s middle school had successfully lobbied and gotten all the town’s fifth graders reassigned from elementary to middle school. They then sent the ninth graders to the new Porter High School as freshmen. The middle school was housed in the former two-building high school. The middle school grouping innovation divided their students into pods; one of fifth and sixth graders in one building and another pod of seventh and eighth graders in the other. The two groups seldom interacted. The elementary schools became, basically, primary schools. 10-year-old fifth graders had no business interacting with kindergarteners or first graders, and keeping the fifth and sixth graders separated from more mature seventh and eighth graders eliminated a lot of the opportunity for bullying and teasing of much younger kids at all the schools. I thought it was pure genius and a boon to academic success. The middle school was filled with young, energetic, collegial teachers and soon became an oft-copied model. 

The Porter elementary schools, however, where I worked, were mired in 1950s protocol. When hired, to my surprise and consternation, I had been encouraged to study my principal’s old lesson plans, which were stacked in binders behind his office door. The implication was that they were to be used as catechism and I should internalize how classes had been operating and what was taught in the past. I ignored that bit of direction. 

Besides dating Karla and teaching, I was knee-deep in an Elementary Reading Education doctoral program. I commuted to Michigan State University several evenings a week and stayed on campus for summer classes. I knew holding tightly to what had traditionally been done in schools wasn’t a winning plan to keep modern kids interested and learning. My studies offered me first-hand knowledge and involvement with current educational renewal data that I saw as integral to improving American education.

I had become anxious about not using what I was learning at MSU and felt I needed a change even before our move to Colorado. In fact, I had interviewed for an opening in the Middle School and was on the way to joining that merry band as a fifth-grade teacher, but the marriage and moving quashed that. 

Now in Colorado, with this new opportunity in Boulder, I was excited to finally work in a district that encouraged bringing university research into classrooms while supporting and applying cutting-edge strategies.

An added benefit was the school to which I’d been assigned was in a poor community. I’d be working with struggling families, much like those I worked with years before in Louisville, Kentucky at the dawn of my teaching career. I left Kentucky after four years of being more a social worker than a teacher. The kids there were in dire need of a confidence boost and had to learn to accept the school as a safe and caring environment before they could tackle any academic challenges. My newness to the profession left me knowing I needed more education to be more effective at both the sociology and academic rigor of teaching. I moved from Kentucky back home to Michigan, due to burn-out from the myriad of problems both the community and school faced daily, plus, I wanted to take advantage of an opportunity to study education at Michigan State to hone those skills. The ensuing years away and more experience made me realize I now missed the challenges presented by working in underserved communities. I was mentally refreshed and prepared to advocate for those families and kids again. 

The move to Colorado had been a good one for both of us. I had my progressive, new job in an underserved community and Kar was experiencing an incredible opportunity to broaden her experience and showcase her talents. So, my reluctance about being around academics at this party seems a bit unwarranted. My anxiety stemmed from the fact that this invitation was to the home of the piano maestro and his wife. Kar had been invited to this gala, rife with music and theater people, due to her newly gained status as university faculty member. I half-expected long cigarette holders, thin mustaches, and affected accents. I could talk about Dostoevsky, Camus, Hemingway, or Vonnegut, and discuss any substantial children’s literature author of one’s choosing. Also, I met and spent a few hours serendipitously drinking bourbon while sitting in a tree with Nobel Prize winner Saul Bellow on the campus of Kalamazoo College one fine, summer afternoon during my undergraduate days. So, I could add that tidbit to any name-dropping, high-brow conversation. But, the depth of my musical interests were Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and Motown. I had long hair, but by no stretch of the imagination was I a classical long-hair. I was certain there would be conversations to which I could add nothing. My anxiety could be an over-reaction to having never met any of these people other than Professor Maestro. If everyone were like him, my fears could be valid, if all were like Karla, the party would be fun. 

I had doubts.

She thought we should go.

I think Kar was suspicious too, and also a bit nervous, because she took exceptional care with what she chose to wear. Deciding on her clothes was never her top priority, as most of her wardrobe consisted of one piece much the same as another. Her idea of variety in her closet was, after finding a sweater she liked, going back to the store and buying four more just like it in different colors. Today, however, she tried on several outfits, consulted me, changed her mind, and finally settled on a skirt and silk blouse. I told her it was perfect and was relieved she didn’t press me for any further details about why it was “perfect” because I had nothing to add. My prize for consulting on all of this was watching her dress, undress down to her underwear and stockings, and then repeat. The underwear was the fun part. She was pleased that I wore my camel colored, corduroy, Brooks Brothers sport coat, a black turtleneck sweater, a pair of jeans, and boots. I thought I looked bohemian. She loved that sport coat and frequently rewarded me with her favors when I chose it.  

Ascending in the elevator I discovered we weren’t going to the 14^th floor. That was the lie on the invitation. We were headed to the 13^th. There was no 13^th floor listed. There was a button for the 12^th floor and next was the 14^th.  This common building contractor ploy to divest anyone of angst over living or visiting on an ‘unlucky 13’ was anathema to us. Karla’s birthday was November 13^th and we purposefully chose July 13^th to be our wedding anniversary into perpetuity. We had even adopted Hiss, a completely black, rescue cat, to finalize our portrait as a couple who liked to live on the edge and spit in the eye of superstition. So, when I pointed out the discrepancy to Kar on our steady lift into the sky, she playfully suggested, “That’s it! Turn this thing around. We’re done here.”

The elevator bumped to a stop at the mis-numbered floor. The doors slid open revealing a gilded foyer. The walls were covered with wallpaper depicting sheaves of grain in what could have been real gold leaf and the floor sported lush, amber carpeting. There appeared to be two condos but there was no doubt about which one we were invited into–– the door was open and framed a busy scene. 

I hesitated as I stepped into what appeared to be the great room. My first vision was an entirely glass wall looking west into the mountains. This lofty vantage point created great clarity, making the range’s snow-capped peaks seem close enough to reach out and grab a handful of the precious powder that made Colorado a winter ski paradise. The depth of this scene was reminiscent of the three-dimensional View-Master slides I owned as a kid. This real-life vista was as glorious as promised in the Panorama Tower promotions. If I couldn’t engage in any conversation with these strangers, I could be happy casting my gaze out the expansive window at this mountain majesty. The view alone was enough to make me glad I agreed to come.

Unlikely as it seems, my attention to the mountains was quickly drawn to another feature. Was it Professor Maestro’s polished, ebony, Steinway, grand piano standing proudly in its place of honor in the great room? Or perhaps the cache of fussy art on the walls? No. Neither of those. The attention-getter was a stream, softly illuminated with muted, blue-green light, running diagonally through the living room floor. I like streams. I’ve attempted to capture their splendor and relentless motion in photographs. I’ve camped by mountain and field streams and marveled at being able to enjoy their tranquil setting in nature’s wilderness. I’ve slept refreshing, dreamless nights listening to their babbling. Yet here one was in urban Denver inside an upscale condominium where a stream was not remotely what I expected to see. It captured my full attention. Its water flowed lazily between a couch and the piano into a small, still pool in a corner beneath the glass wall and, apparently, cycled back through pipes in the floor to a fountain waterfall on the other side of the room, only to cascade down the wall and make the journey all over again. It was a nearly foot-wide channel of elaborately created white noise and constant current that served no other purpose than to render these quarters unique. 

There was an arched bridge to get from one side to the other, but I stepped across the stream, not really knowing if this was an affront to protocol, to retrieve a bit of goose liver pate on melba toast from an array of appetizers and two glasses of wine. I popped the bite into my mouth, picked up the wine glasses, and began to search for Karla. I did this mostly to focus on a familiar activity––eating and drinking––as close to normalcy as I could find in an effort to steady my bearings. I was also sure Kar could use some wine to facilitate her bearings steadying too. I was glad both of us had taken care with our outfits. This gathering could end up being memorable and I wanted us to be dressed for the occasion.

This was a pot-luck Thanksgiving meal with everyone bringing a favorite recipe. Karla made a chopped, fresh spinach, mozzarella cheese, and butter baked appetizer. It was a new recipe for her and was really tasty. I know because, over Kar’s objection, I sampled a square earlier in the day as the pan came out of the oven. Culinary taste treats aside, being a Midwest boy, was expecting turkey and dressing as today’s entrée. But no. There was no aroma of roasting bird. Rather a long table with an olio of covered dishes and bowls people had brought as offerings. 

Best I could figure, it looked like my main course was going to be Thanksgiving spaghetti. The goose liver pate appitizer was the only bit of fowl on which I’d be dining this day. 

The arrival of guests slowed to a few stragglers. As I scanned the room I did not see Professor Maestro or anyone who might be his wife. I had only seen him the one time on campus I mentioned earlier, but heard stories of him being an odd duck who lived his absent-minded professor role with aplomb. He was flamboyant to the extent that he occasionally wore a cloak around campus. I suspected, without a shred of evidence beyond my imagination, that Professor Maestro also had a silver knobbed cane he could wield like a scepter to accessorize his cloak. Karla is able to separate his persona from his piano skills. She says she enjoys studying with him. I always envisioned her lessons as her in full color calmly paying attention, fingers poised on the ivory keys, while sitting on the piano bench next to an exuberant, baton wielding, animated, wild-haired caricature in black and white. I never wanted to be a party to any of Karla’s lessons, as I didn’t want to muddle that ridiculous image with what was surely the much more normal reality. Having such limited knowledge of who Maestro actually is allows my mind the freedom to wander and be creative. I had never met his wife––that was an event yet to happen––but no one currently in the room could possibly have been her.

Kar enthusiastically took one of the wine glasses from me. After her first sip, she and I crashed an in progress, small group conversation. We discovered it was about Edward Albee’s play, “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.” There would be a production playing in one of the smaller venues at Denver’s Center for Performing Arts beginning after the first of the year. Two of the cast members were at the party, and involved with the discussion. Neither had a lead part. One was playing the Roadhouse Waitress and the other the Roadhouse Manager, the only two parts in the play outside the main four. The woman with the waitress part was also the understudy for Honey. They talked about currently being in rehearsals and were quite obviously pleased basking in their moments of being the center of attention. The play depicts two, dysfunctional, academic couples and their night of booze and indiscriminate insults. My mind immediately leapt to the possibility of an expanded recreation of the play in this setting. I mentally scanned the room and, by looks alone, began to pair characters to take the lead roles. I tried to escape that troubling thought by posing a question, to no one in particular, asking whose side they were on. In West Side Story one had to choose Jets or Sharks. In The Old Man and the Sea, the reader had to choose the fish or Santiago. It seems only fair to ask: “Whose side are you on; Martha, George, Nick, or Honey?” 

Personally, in the beginning, I was on Nick’s side and hoping beyond hope that Honey could survive with what little sanity she seemed to have, but by the end Martha tentatively became my choice for protagonist. I’m still really not sure, so my question to the group was genuine.

The discussion of Albee’s play made my over-fertile mind start thinking about this whole Thanksgiving affair as theater being staged for the benefit of one. Just for me. The stream began representing a metaphorical divide––neither a Rubicon, which when crossed, decisions were final, nor a Styx that after being ferried by Phlegyas, damnation was eternal. Rather, traversing this relentless Stream-of-the-Maestro, one could travel between reality, on the side with the couch, and the fantasy world of losing one’s self in creating music and drama on the piano side. I could choose to enter or exit a fantasy world by simply stepping across the mystic stream with impunity. I imagined I could sit on the couch, blink, and see Fantasia with dancing brooms. Blink again and the ongoing, surreal Thanksgiving celebration would return to the stage. I was having a good time with these musings and also heartened to realize that the mountain wonderland outside the window was on the side of reality.

I decided to start taking mental notes so, if need be, this improvisational theatre could be recreated. Act I set the scene with the snow-covered mountains, seemingly only an arm’s reach out the window, the piano, the food-laden table, the fussy art, and, of course, the odd little stream that meandered through the whole set. Act I continued with the introduction of characters, conversation, and the crushing realization that there would be no golden-brown bird with dressing and gravy to be had on this Thanksgiving Day in 1977. The final scene of Act I would foreshadow the hosts and the plot twist I suspected to be true, but did not expect to manifest in the way it did.

The curtain was raised on Act II with the buzz of voices and the bustle of extra players moving plates and bowls of food around the set. As if on cue, from the wings stage left, came the maestro and the love of his life, a piano prodigy. A chap perhaps less than half Maestro’s age with dripping wet, shiny, black, combed back hair that could only have, just moments before, come out of the shower. And, from the wings stage right, appeared Mrs. Maestro and the woman who obviously delighted her. Both in gowns fit for a gala, and both with dry, coifed hair dos. If there had been an orchestra, there would have been a brass fanfare. All four met center stage, heralded the gathering as if they were royalty rewarding crowds of loyalists in the plaza with a rare viewing. Finally, giving notice that all players were in attendance. The plot could now begin to thicken. The curtain fell on Act II.

Act III began rife with a flurry of eating and consuming wine in a scene fit for Bacchus. The actors stood while dining and continued conversations, or sat on a variety of chairs or pillows strewn around the great room. Also present, the wafting aroma of pot mixed with the continued patter. This could have been a modernized scene from “Henry VIII” or a rewrite of the hedonistic meal from “Tom Jones.”

As the dinner scene concluded into a fade-out, activity began to redirect. Fresh cadres formed, and distinct conversations began to meld into a steady din. Now, coming to fruition was the dramatic promise of Chekhov’s gun. The piano, which loomed slightly out of focus at the edges of activity since being introduced in Act I, became center stage as guests-turned-performers took turns showcasing their skills. Polite applause ended each piece. As I predicted, not one Smokey Robinson or Lennon-McCartney tune was featured. Notably, Mrs. Maestro did regale us as did the wet-haired prodigy, but Professor Maestro himself did not. Neither did Karla. My take is that she thought it too pretentious. She was not shy about performing––she had remarkable skills, but there was a time and a place and she wasn’t interested in becoming one of the musical cast of extras.

Kar and I stepped across the stream, to get ourselves out of focus and onto the edge of the action. We decided to quietly observe from the reality-based side of the stream while more of Act III’s scenes continued to unfold on the fantasy side. We felt isolated and alone. We sat side-by-side on one of the couches and sipped our wine. 

The players on the stage across the stream scurried about with some clearing, cleaning, and rearranging of dishes that had been emptied. Others paired up and took seats with more drinks or added depth to the aroma of cannabis––the piano recitals continued. 

To stave off ennui, after one piece I asked Kar, “Who composed that?” 

“Chopin.”

“Whose music is that one?”

“Beethoven.”

“That one?”

“Debussy.” And before I could ask, after the first bar of notes from the next, Kar preempted me, “Liszt.”

She was clearly getting irritated that I was testing her with our new game. “Beethoven again. Hey! Why do you even care about this?” 

I demurred. 

We decided we’d be even less conspicuous as spectators if we sat more obscurely on the floor, like many of the others. We slid the pillows off the couch and nestled close with our backs against the frame. We watched Professor and Mrs. Maestro converge, meeting with their heads leaning together as they appeared to chat using their best miming techniques. They were tacitly projecting seriousness to show the audience they were deep into solving one or another of the day’s most pressing issues. It was obvious they came to agreement and hastily retreated, in what could only be described as choreographed motion, back to their lovers’ sides––once again, effecting a party mood. They were skillful. 

We watched Puck flitting around the long table sampling more of the food choices. His delight shown with emoted hand gestures and facial expression. He seemed particularly intent on Kar’s spinach bars. “Ooh-la-la,” 

I stifled an urge to applaud. 

As we sat curled on the cushions, I noticed Kar’s skirt had ridden up exposing the tops of her nylon stockings and garter clips. I reached over intending to smooth the skirt, but instead, without any particular thought, gently ran my hand under her skirt, up her leg, past the top of her stockings, and caressed the silky smoothness of her panties between her legs. She reacted with a shiver, then by stiffening her legs, and slapping at my hand. No one was paying any attention to us, so I challenged her by lightly continuing to caress that softness.

I reached my thumb deeper between her legs and my middle finger toward the top of her panties, then lightly brought them together into an O shape. I did this again and again. Kar pushed down on my hand coyly indicating for me to stop––this wasn’t the place––but did not make any other attempt to remove my hand away from its hiding place. I slowed my movement and began to stroke her in a cadence. The action was hypnotizing both of us. The steady reach of my fingers and slow closure in that rhythmic pace put us both into a foggy trance. Our attention began to switch. Watching the actors in the play unfolding before us became mindless and secondary. My attention was entirely on me, still playing beneath her skirt. Kar relaxed her legs, moving them ever so slightly farther apart. She was still attempting to keep some attention on the drama before us but a much greater, lion’s share, shifted to the diversion I was providing. Still, no one seemed to notice, or care, that we had crossed the stream to become uncredited members of the audience, albeit turning the play interactive by engaging in covert action befitting the grandest of playwrights.

After a time of semiconscious caressing between Kar’s legs and minimal attention to the cast on the stage-across-the-stream, I noticed a dampness begin to mingle with my stroking. Kar began to push back against my fingers with almost imperceptible force. Her hips began to match my cadence. If I slowed, she slowed. If I moved more quickly, she rushed her thrust to catch up. I put more force behind my strokes and found the groove her panties had slipped into that gave the reach and close of my fingers an even wetter path to follow. 

I brought my glance to her face for the first time since we began our scene in Act III. I found her looking at the ceiling rather than the stage-across-the-stream. She looked to be far away in her thoughts with her lips slightly parted and they, like the fen between her legs, were moist––kept damp by the occasional appearance of her tongue licking them. I watched Karla’s face steeped in serenity and heard the faintest, unintelligible whisper from her. I didn’t need to look at her lap to tell that her thrusting against my caresses had gotten stronger inviting me to push in even deeper. Her reaction began to cause pleasure in me and to feel my own dampness. My breathing quickened to match hers as my fingers found the edges of her panties and moved them aside revealing a much different, more exciting softness and wetness. 

Now, it didn’t matter if we had taken over as lead actors of this cast on the drama side of the stream, or were still just audience out of focus on the reality side. The time had come to not turn back. Kar gave a hard thrust of her hips and my fingers sank all the way into her dampness. An uncontrolled whimper escaped from her that had as much of an effect on me as it did her. She muffled her mouth with her hand while her legs trembled and clamped tightly shut around my hand, trapping my fingers deep within. A heavy sigh from me as I looked around the room. If anyone had any idea what had just transpired, they gave no indication that they cared or that it was even unusual. 

Kar finally relaxed her legs, offering me an escape, and tended to her skirt. At long last covering the tops of her stockings. She panted quietly. After she regained her regular breathing, she straightened her sitting position, gave me a lingering kiss on my cheek, and cooed in my ear, “That was really special. It’s your turn next.”  

Before I could take her up on her promise, we needed to rejoin the play on the stage-across-the-stream and participate in bringing down the curtain on Act III, our final act. Then we could head back to Boulder and my reward.

Kar and I got up, quickly replaced the couch cushions, and portaged back across the stream. We stepped into a conversation about the calendar for the upcoming spring semester at the university and who would handle which class sessions. I had nothing to add to this chat, so I found some dessert made with raspberry sorbet and a wafer to tide me over on our trip back to Boulder. I took one last look at the outdoor wonder in front of me. The sun was setting behind the mountains. What remained was a silhouette of the Continental Divide. An orange glow flooded the sky above the peaks, revealing the Divide’s defining outline. 

Kar retrieved her sweater, a gesture to let me know she was ready to leave.

“Adieu.” I turned away from the ethereal vista and we headed toward the elevator to make our way down from our 14^th, nay 13^th, floor perch. Darkness awaited us at the outside door. I draped my corduroy jacket over Kar’s shoulders and walked a block with my arm wrapped around her for warmth. Her sweater was no longer sufficient protection from the after dark, November chill. We slid into the car and began our silent, enjoyable, wine enhanced drive exploring a different route back to our new home.

After several miles I broke the silence. Just to be sure Karla was clear, I informed her, “You know, I’ve never had spaghetti for Thanksgiving.” 

Rather than respond, in an effort to bring a bit of familiarity back into our lives, Kar slid a Bob Dylan cassette into the player and we listened to him sing about a lady on his big, brass bed. She took my hand and held it in her lap, the site of the most memorable moment of this Thanksgiving Day.

Broken Places Remain Broken

Terry Donnelly

 

            “Has it been thirty years?”

            I felt someone behind me touch the sleeve of my coat.

            The woman’s voice I could not place continued, “I’m not sure I would have recognized your back, but I remember that old pea coat. Wasn’t it your dad’s when he was in the Navy? I’m amazed you’re still wearing that thing.”

            As I turned to her I answered her second question. “Yes. I traded him a red, flannel Boy Scout jacket for it a hundred years ago. I’ve been wearing it since I was in high school.”

            The midnight blue, wool coat is the warmest winter protection I’ve ever owned. The tight knit is perfect for keeping out frigid winds and wicking away moisture. It’s even better than the modern, much lighter weight, down-filled ski jackets available today. The U.S. Navy really knew how to protect their sailors. Yet, the years had taken a toll. I still have all 10 original, Navy-issued, anchor buttons, which may actually be worth something as collector’s items. There were eight buttons on the double-breasted body of the coat and two hidden under the collar to close the open neck snugly for even more warmth and protection. Fully buttoned, with the collar turned up, that coat was a fortress against any tempest an angry ocean or revenge-seeking sea could hurl at it.  Today, the sleeves, elbows, and hem are showing abraded, faded edges that were fraying. I had a tailor sew patches on the elbows several years ago to mitigate the wear and extend the coat’s utility. Only fitting it is showing its age after Dad using it for four years in World War II and then me taking over 20 years later and sporting it for the next 30-plus winters. It had become an old, trusted friend and I wasn’t interested in making any decisions about replacing it. Even though it had a long, productive life and deserved to be retired, perhaps donated to a museum, I continued to pull it from the back of the closet each fall after the first snow with no thought of getting more stylish winterwear.

            Turning toward the voice and the touch my mind was racing. Searching for any hint of recognition. 

It took me only another heartbeat to recognize the attractive, nearly fifty-year-old woman. The face, framed by a knitted stocking cap and a shock of beautifully disheveled, wind-blown hair, rocketed me back in time. 

            I was finally able to answer her original question. “Yeah, it’s been 30 years.”

            Erin Matthews and I had been sweethearts for a majority of our high school years. We may have even had crushes on each other in junior high. She wasn’t my first kiss, that happened when I was in sixth grade when a traveling carnival had set up a half-dozen or so rides in the shopping center parking lot across the street from school one early August weekend. Among the crowd was a girl from my class; her cousin, who was visiting from out of town; and a boy I recognized, but didn’t know well. After a few rides with them, and after daylight had stubbornly agreed to ebb from the summer sky, the setting provided enough cover of darkness for us to sneak across the street onto the shadows of the school playground. We sat on a park bench and began a seemingly innocent game of Truth or Dare. It ended after a few rounds with my classmate kissing me and her cousin kissing the other boy. I think the game could have progressed. The other three wanted to continue with the game. There may well have been a few more “firsts” that night, but the kiss sent me into an adolescent panic attack and I made the excuse that I was late getting home and fled like a pheasant flushed from a corn field. I still wonder what may have happened if curiosity had triumphed over fear.

            Through no fault of mine, Erin wasn’t my other monumental relationship first either. We were late teenagers dating for several years and I’d have been perfectly happy to progress well past the variety of experimentations we explored together. But, Erin always drew a deep line in the sand, more of a trench, when we got close to actual sex. So, my time with Erin was bookended by a sixth grade first kiss before she and I started dating and a college freshman one-night stand at a Young Democrats’ convention after our time was over.

Everything else I knew about being with a woman in those early days, I learned from or with Erin.

The drives on summer, star-lit evenings away from the city to find a rural spot where the rock-and-roll, megawatt radio station every teen attempted to tune in, WLS in Chicago, could be picked up static-free on the car radio from 150 miles away; swimming in Lake Michigan; going to school dances and proms; ice skating dates on winter Fridays; being distracted due to fawning over her on the few occasions we shared a class; worrying because her period was late, even though the closest we ever got to intercourse was rubbing each other; and all the rest of a middle-class teenager’s middle American, coming-of-age experiences and drama, including professing ever-lasting love, washed over me as I recognized her and began to realize what she still meant to me––what first love would always mean.

            The last time I saw her was during the fledgling days of 1965. Attending different colleges as freshmen, we spent our winter semester break in our hometown catching up with high school friends we hadn’t seen since summer. During our time together that December, I sensed a coolness from her, but dismissed it. She had begun to assert her independence by taking up smoking, like many college freshmen, especially women. Of course, being Erin that meant being cautious. She didn’t smoke unfiltered Camels. She smoked the much milder Kool menthols. Still, a big and symbolic step. I figured her chill was just another facet of her experimenting with new-found maturity and taking advantage of freedoms––new daylight––opening up before her. 

Women everywhere were engaging in a strong and long overdue push-back against a male dominated world. I rationalized that she was simply joining with millions of other women who were on the cusp of putting themselves in positions from which they were historically shunned. I believed Erin, although not overly assertive in her personal life––the big exception to that, of course, was her firmly held absolute of avoiding having sex with me––fit right in with the philosophical sea-change that was steadily gaining momentum around the globe. I was happy for her.

She had plans with her mother and sister for New Year’s Eve. Three high school friends and I were headed to a fifth friend’s apartment for a rousing, penny-ante poker game, and an evening of catching up that included some beers on a night everyone would be celebrating. By the time I finally saw Erin, a few days into the new year, we both were ready to head back to a new college semester. I walked over to her house in the morning and talked until after noon. With all the social activity of our school break, we didn’t have much time for personal, deep discussions. I sensed something she wanted to say, but she didn’t broach anything monumental. She told me she hated her math class, was glad it was only one semester, and now over. She loved Psych. 101 and was planning to make that her major. She confessed she and a bunch of friends got caught drinking beer earlier in the semester. She had to spend a week of only going out to classes and getting meals. The rest of the time, she was to be in her dorm room. I was most surprised about her drinking beer. I continued to dismissed what was clearly avoidance behavior from her as some anxiousness. We kissed good-bye with promises to see each other soon. I said I’d hitchhike the 90 miles north to see her in a month or so.

I never did that. In mid-February, after my last class of the day, I made my routine, afternoon trip to the Olivet College student center to check my mailbox. I regularly got letters from my best friends, Gene Watson, who was at Kalamazoo College in our hometown, and Aiden Croft who had chosen Oberlin College in Ohio. We all attended small, liberal arts schools for our first steps into academia. They were both good and loyal writers and the three of us each tried to win the day by keeping the others entertained with our antics and informed of our current, and often changing, views of philosophical matters. One week, John Stuart Mill and Jeremy Bentham were the cat’s meow and the next, Utilitarianism was much too plebeian. Aiden once wrote a few pages comparing the psychological equality of Poe’s “The Telltale Heart” and Kafka’s The Trial. Gene went on making a case for Existentialist philosopher and author, Albert Camus’ opening for The Stranger: “Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know.”––being the perfect lede. I convinced both to read Leon Uris’s Mila 18, a poignant novel about the Warsaw ghetto in Poland during World War II. It was Uris’s 1961, lesser known follow-up to his blockbuster best-seller of 1959, Exodus. We were having a wonderful time trying to be the first to climb to the summit of Mount Sprezzatura, laying claim to being hipper than the other two.

Gene was the friend who pitched racial equality activism to me. He spent months convincing me to overcome my ambivalence and anxiety and travel South with him during the summer of 1965 as Freedom Workers and Freedom Teachers in support of voting rights. Gene sent me news clippings and kept a running monologue about how unfair a hundred years of segregationist activity was. In March I was finally convinced to enlist with him when the nation got slapped in the face with television news coverage of Bloody Sunday in Selma, Alabama. Gene and I signed on to the cause with a group out of Chicago. After a bus trip, we met other groups for a few days in Atlanta training and hearing Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. speak. Then it was off to northern Florida for a month helping register voters and educating folks to the possibilities for a future that included voting. Capping off our efforts, on August 6, President Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act into law. Our experience that summer became the focus of my first novel, First You Hear Thunder. I’ll always be grateful to Gene for his doggedly setting me on a lifelong activist’s path.

This day there was nothing posted from either. Rather, I unearthed a nerve-shattering Dear John letter from Erin. I wasn’t prepared for it and it became the focus of my being for a couple of months. I’m not an overly sentimental sort, but the proximity of her letter to St. Valentine’s Day did not go unnoticed. She had met a man while working as a waitress at a beach-front restaurant on Lake Michigan the summer before. They had fallen for each other and she had been trying to tell me since August. Suddenly her urgent need to “be with family” and not me on New Year’s Eve and the root of her anxious behavior came into focus. When she didn’t get her task done over Christmas, she penned the letter.

That letter was the last I heard from Erin. 

I was at sea. Immediately after I began rejecting all women as evil. A short time later I saw the folly in that and switched to superficially seeing anyone I could corral into a date. I’d get a Friday night date on Friday evening during supper. We’d kiss and pet to see how far it could go, but if there were any hint of seriousness or commitment, I’d back off in a second. This pattern lasted the rest of the year and included the one-night-stand at the political convention.

Now, 30 years later and completely out of context, here she is, on Christmas Eve, with her hand on my arm in the bakery department of the local grocery store. I was at a loss trying to figure out how she found me, dismissing any chance of a wild coincidence. I live in Boulder, Colorado––had since 1977––and was visiting in Porter, Michigan, a town of just seven thousand where I had lived and taught elementary school for a few years before moving to Boulder. Porter is over 30 miles from where we had known each other. I didn’t know where she lived, but I was quite sure this wasn’t it.

The short daylight hours of mid-winter were drifting into night. Stores were closing, freeing their employees to rush home to be with families for Christmas. 

Snow was falling, lightly for now, but several inches were predicted to accumulate overnight. Perfect for Santa Claus, but not so good for night driving. 

I was in the store on a mission to get Kaiser rolls that had been missed on a shopping list earlier in the day for a party with college friends still living in the area. The group hadn’t been together for several years, and I was expected back with the goods in minutes.

            I was still confused about this whole encounter. “What are you doing here? How did you find me? This is really bizarre!”

            “I’m so sorry, Wally!” Erin skipped all my questions and poured out her heart. Her eyes became damp from tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt you with that letter. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you about Jerry and me, even when I had the perfect chance while we were talking that morning before we went back to college. I knew, right away, that summer, I loved him and wanted to marry him. I didn’t want to hurt you, but I did. I hope it makes you feel better to know that Jerry and I have been married for these 30 years and have three kids. He was the one.” 

She drew a halting breath and went on, “I knew I’d hurt you with that letter and had almost gotten over it and then your books started coming out. I was quick to read them. I read Unfinished as soon as it was published. I know that a lot of the story is about Aiden, but I also know the opening is about you and me. It broke my heart all over when I read your account. I cried for hours after reading the first chapters.” The tears staining her cheeks only made her more appealing. “Jerry kept asking what was wrong, but I couldn’t explain it to him. I can’t help fantasizing what might have been with us. I love your stories.” She wiped dry her nose and eyes with the sleeve of her coat.

            I hugged her and told her it had been a long time. What she had done was surprising and hurtful at the time, but fine. We were just kids. I forgot about the Kaiser rolls and Erin didn’t get whatever she was in the store to buy either. We walked out into the darkness to find huge, white flakes falling. The streets were mostly empty, the holiday lights that adorned the main street of town were lit and the world was quiet and stunning––a stage beautifully set for two. We looked for a tavern to have a drink. There were a couple on the block. The Stagecoach Inn was an historic building in town with an old, wooden, weather-worn double door and a facade including a large picture window created by many individual panes. The building could have easily come directly from a street in a Dickens novel. The view inside was always inviting to passers-by––especially on winter nights like this when frost encircled each pane in the big window. Even though the muntins needed a fresh coat of forest green paint, they framed a warm scene. It was my favorite stop during my stint there more than 15 years earlier. Farther down was the Copper Club, Porter’s answer to a sports bar and the closest source I’ve ever found replicating a ball park hot dog. But, they had both already closed early for the night. 

“Erin sounded certain. “We can’t go our own ways yet. I want to spend a little more time talking to you. I have a lot I’d like to know. I’ve got questions from your books.”

 We went back into the grocery store just before it closed and bought a six-pack of beer and got into my rental car.

            I opened a beer for each of us and we toasted. I’m not sure if we toasted old times, or, was it wishing each other a Merry Christmas?

            “Hey, do you still smoke?”

            She looked at me quizzically. “After 30 years, that’s what you want to know? The answer is ‘no.’ I quit in 1971 when I was pregnant with Denny, our second child. I had been reading how smoking was unhealthy for me, but especially bad for developing babies, so I quit.”

            “Did you ever smoke Virginia Slims?”

            “I know you are fishing for something here … Yes, I did.”

            “It’s not important, but when they came on the market enlisting modern women a few years after we broke up, I immediately thought of you. I always envisioned you one of the first on board with the equal rights movement, and, in my mind, Virginia Slims seemed made for you. I expected to see you in one of their ads. I vowed if I ever saw you again, I’d greet you with ‘you’ve come a long way, Baby,’ but you surprised me here and I blew my chance.”

            She tried to sound incredulous, “You never called me ‘Baby’ once in all the time we were together!”

“Maybe not, but I called you ‘Honey’ one time and you got mad thinking I called you another woman’s name. Do you remember that?”

“Maybe.”

“I just stuck to ‘Erin’ after that.”

“Well, I wish the amendment would finally pass. I worked hard for it and joined several rallies locally. You know me, I’m happy working on the committee but would rather stay out of the limelight––nowhere near a microphone. I’d be just as happy if they left my name off the program. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished and I’m willing to do more to get this done. But, I haven’t smoked for almost 25 years––a year or so before the ERA was even passed by Congress.

            “I don’t have any deeper reason to know. I was just trying to validate my fertile imagination. Turns out you were right about not smoking. Good for you for quitting.”

            “It wasn’t easy, but my kids come first, so I was determined.”  

            There was a pause before I finally responded to Erin’s confessions in the store. “Well, you dodged a bullet by not marrying me. I’ve been divorced twice. And, I’ve been married for the third time for ten years. I have two great kids with my first wife. She, her husband, and my kids all live here, in Porter. I also have a 17-year-old step-son in Colorado. The kids are the main reason I’m here, to spend some of Christmas with them––they’re not kids, 23 and 25, but still my kids. I lived here for a few years and still have friends––college friends, Olivet is so close quite a few still live in the area; and teacher friends from when I taught here. In fact, I’m supposed to be with some of them now. I’m having Christmas brunch with the kids tomorrow. 

“I haven’t been the best father and definitely not a good husband.” Our conversation was finally turning into the deep, truthful discussion we avoided the last time we saw each other. “It has taken me a long time to settle down. Maybe a long time to grow up. I think I’m ready now, but I’ve still got a lot to prove. I’ll let you know in another 30 years if I’ve conquered that task. You are much better without me. You were settled and knew pretty much what you wanted when we were kids. I thought I did too, but I was wrong.”

            Erin cut me off by leaning across the car. She put her hand over my mouth to quiet me, then cupped her hands around my face and kissed me. Finding each other in such an odd place and seemingly out of nowhere, then finding no one on the streets on the only day of the year all the stores closed early, plus the gorgeous snowfall all seemed to be conspiring to make it feel like we were the only two people in the world. The snow had begun collecting on the windshield and side windows of the car. Our freshly formed snow cocoon added to our feelings of isolation. It felt like the world had put us in a setting where we could act with impunity. Loyalties were vanquished. Responsibilities were nowhere to be found. Without another word we both got out of the front seat of the car and slid into the back where, without the center console, we could be closer. This all felt so natural and normal––as if the span of 30 years had been but a weekend apart.

            Being close together, holding each other, felt sublime. We fit together seamlessly. The comfort and warmth were like a pair of old, thick woolen socks pulled on effortlessly over bare feet sitting before a glowing fire. We drank from our beer cans and sat, momentarily silent. The quiet spoke volumes. There were more caresses that somehow felt more right than wrong. Without any intent, I unbuttoned Erin’s coat and slid my arms inside, under her sweater. My hands felt the smoothness and warmth of the skin around her waist and back that had been both precious and familiar to me so many years ago. 

I pulled her closer. She didn’t object in any way––as if I had done something she fully expected and of which she approved.

            There was joy in holding her close. It felt warm and familiar––comforting to be so near to her. Too soon, she pulled away. Nothing was said as we both realized this was not “more right than wrong,” and tacitly acknowledged we could not go on.

            Finally, I restarted our conversation. “Hemingway wrote in A Farewell to Arms, ‘The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.’ He didn’t actually mean that people are stronger after they break, but that interpretation is what many choose to believe. I don’t. My break has healed, but I’ll always have a vulnerable spot for you at the break. I don’t think that’s bad, or a character flaw, or any kind of human weakness. I like it. I think it is what allows me to write. It’s a real-life tribute to first love. I’ve got you to thank for that. Our time together and what we did as a couple, blindly finding our way, was perfect for me. When you were no longer there I had to change my arc, but I only regretted the break for a short time. I can always feel it and know it is what inspires me. It took a while and a few false starts go open up to a woman again, but the experience is what makes me me.”

            We still sat touching. Her head was on my shoulder as we talked. She occasionally lifted it so we could look at each other, but always returned to rest on my shoulder in perfect harmony. I had unbuttoned my old, frayed pea coat and Erin left her coat open as it had been earlier. I could still see the soft, smooth skin around her waist where I had lifted her sweater. Nothing seemed out of place or in need of correction.

            “I want to be a chronicler of our times. I’d like to be able to explain our normalcy right along with finding and exhibiting our uniqueness. Aiden was a chronicler with his photography. I only wish he had lived long enough for us to compare what we created. I think Aiden won the race to the top of the mountain. The photojournalism he left is likely more inspiring to more people than my writing, but I’m still seeking the words to expose who we are. I want to challenge Hemingway and say the broken places stay broken, but are not disabling. 

“Aiden got cut short. That’s the only explanation I can conjure for his vanishing act. We kept in contact for a long time and then nothing. I know he was in Beirut and I know he was using drugs. I pieced together what I could and wrote Unfinished for him. But, not just for him––it’s for me too. I’m not 100% sure he’s dead, but writing that story, no matter if my ending is right or wrong, gave me the closure I needed to make sense out of what must have happened in real life. 

“It’s like you said, Aiden’s character is twined with me––with us. Those first chapters are from our story. Aiden, Gene, you, and me. You three are the backbone of my quest in writing. You three represent all that is normal and all that is unique in my books. If you hadn’t written that letter, Kitt, Becky, and the other women characters I use wouldn’t have been available to help the chronicler.

            “I hated giving Kitt and Becky to Aiden in Unfinished. I really wanted them for myself. That is just me being selfish, but they are wonderful characters who help reveal my desire to explain the commonality and uniqueness coexisting in all of us.” 

“Wally, you need to write more. I’d love to read about your three wives and your kids and how you describe your life. Tell me. Please. I’m interested.”

            “You know, I’ve tried to write about my being a crappy husband and a mostly absent father, but it’s really hard to write about yourself as the bad guy in a story. It all comes out in undeveloped, weakly apologetic spurts of consciousness echoing the treachery of misplaced affection. I’ll keep trying. I think I make pretty good fodder for a bad guy, and I’d hate to admit that someone else needs to write it.

            “Mavis Gallant is a prolific writer for The New Yorker magazine. Do you know of her? She was a journalist in Montreal, left to see the world, living in, what she titled one of her books, Varieties of Exile. She’s been an expat in Paris for many years. She’s in her mid-seventies now, and still writes. She’s probably a little dark for your liking. The City of Light holds no light for her. She writes that Parisian food is dull and commercial. She laments the lack of ‘elegant and expensive-looking women’ in a place we all hold as a beacon of couture. Anyway, her greatest fear is ‘artistic fakery’. She had a bust of Michelangelo and one day, looking at it, thought, ‘Would he have liked me?’ Her answer to herself was, he would have tolerated her. That feeling keeps writers awake at night. My take is I have no hope of pleasing Michelangelo. I only want to be tolerated by Mavis Gallant. When I try to write about my greatest flaw, I see only ‘artistic fakery.” 

“I don’t think you could be the bad guy in a story.” Erin spoke quietly, lifting her head off my shoulder and looking into my eyes. “I believe we all are sinners, but that doesn’t mean we are fundamentally bad. If we continue to do what we believe in we’ll be accepted in the end.

“If you write the stories, they will, undoubtedly, help someone else.”

Time had passed. The snow kept falling. We both were late for Christmas Eve celebrations––I guessed, her with family, and me with friends. Now, we both were without the goods we were dispatched to bring back. My friends were without Kaiser rolls and Erin’s absence was surely troubling. But, there was still much to say before we parted.

            Erin was profoundly religious. She believed in human purpose to serve her God and be a good person in that God’s honor.

I tried to explain my take. “We are all a perfect definition of our times. We reflect, not just who we are as individuals, but we’re also the key into what our time on Earth means. We have a spirit that influences and can drive those who know and appreciate us after we are gone. That’s our everlasting life––our lasting influence on our loved ones. I can’t get it right, so I keep trying. I know there is a perfect combination of words out there that can explain us. I’m convinced the answer is simple, yet elusive. I hope the answer is a little more complicated than a corporate slogan, like Vonnegut’s ‘Progress is our most important product’ for G.E. or a bit like ‘Where’s the beef?’ from a Wendy’s ad about ten years ago. But, I’m not sure it is. That’s what makes art so compelling.”

I didn’t want to get into any discussion with her that included her faith versus my atheism and take on human spiritualism. We had that discussion many times as 17 and 18-year-olds when I was deep in the process of making that weighty decision. A decision I’ve kept and with which I am thoroughly comfortable.  But, I added, “I think it is up to us alone. We’re the ones who get to determine whether our lives were successful of a bust.”

It seemed like Erin didn’t want any extended debate about religion either. She sat mum and waited for me to continue.

“Stories with me as a bad guy could fill volumes. To start, I have to relay a complement to you that came from one of my girlfriends a long time ago. Of course, you never met, but she appreciated how you trained me.” 

“Is it that I made you put the toilet seat down?”

“Not exactly––but, I still do that.

“I first noticed her in a political science class, maybe a year after we broke up. I was a sophomore and she was a year older, a junior. She was a knockout blonde who seemed to be in perpetual motion, tightly wound with, what seemed like, saccadic movements. She was French. Her name was Reine. It means queen and she filled the part exquisitely. She was dating a deployed soldier. I didn’t know about him and asked her out. She was fine with a few dates on weekends or a vodka gimlet mixed and consumed in my car after studying during the week, but she made it clear she wasn’t interested in any commitment. That was perfect for me. I don’t think she ever broke up with her soldier boyfriend, but we ended up being a couple for more than a year. After the spring semester ended and we were on school break I drove over to her hometown 50 miles away to see her nearly every weekend. I was staying at a lake cottage south of Kalamazoo, rented for the summer with Aiden and Gene, but was smitten enough with her to make the trip often. Our relationship was like a hurricane coming. There were gentle winds at first, but in the end the gale was too much to bear. Our torch was slow to light, but lightning fast to extinguish.

“Anyway, her family owned a farm and she always preferred going back and parking in an opening on the farmland to end our evenings. She said it was safe and private and she was right. We were never discovered. What she wanted me to tell you, even though she didn’t know exactly who you are, came in the wee hours one Saturday morning as we parked after our Friday-night date. Clothes were strewn around the car and we were in the midst of breathlessly pleasuring each other. It was almost like she sat up and took a time-out in one of her cat-like moves. She said, ‘You need to tell whomever taught you how to touch a woman, she did a terrific job.’ So, there. You should be proud of your skills.”

Erin blushed, but did not respond.

“I’m the bad guy here because I always felt bad about having this affair with a woman a deployed soldier thought was his, and I was only after a conquest.”

“You felt badly about the affair. That shows you are really good.” Erin was being ameliorative. 

“You don’t have to defend me. There are so many more. My redemption may come from the fact that I didn’t sexually cheat on my wives while we were married. 

“No, that’s not true. There were one or two exceptions––there always are. I had gotten a job as a claim adjuster with State Farm Insurance. That job turned into a disaster. I was charged with representing the company, which meant I was supposed to pay out the minimum possible amount of money in claims against our insureds. I was terrible. I always ended up feeling sorry for, and siding with the claimants who were injured, incurred real expenses, and were inconvenienced without their car. I negotiated in favor of the claimants over the interests of the company. I was always asking for more money to give them rather than pay the bare bones. The bosses soon caught on and I was looking for a new job in short order. Part of my original training was three weeks at Claim School. The training took place at the State Farm home office in Bloomington, Illinois, a mostly rural setting. We were about two dozen, young, new employees, all men with the exception of one, lone woman, away from home. We went to classes during the day to learn everything about an insurance contract, small print and all, and the legal connections it had to the rights of those involved in accidents. We were supposed to study the contract and claims book procedures in the evening, but we mostly spent our evenings free to explore the bars and taverns––and women––of Bloomington. One dive bar was a particularly fun hang-out. The bar itself was built on a big, oval fish tank––it was like a NASCAR race track for goldfish. We’d sit at the bar, pick a fish with some distinguishing mark, and make bets on how long it would take the fish to complete the circuit. Another bet was for each of us to pick a different fish and see whose was fastest around the track. That was fun, but even more so was the cache of State Farm groupies who came out to tempt each class. On a couple of evenings, I joined in that game and drove my company car out into a corn field to enjoy the favors of a bored, young, Bloomington woman looking for anything to do.

“Before I got axed at State Farm, I hung around a couple guys I worked with in Kentucky in 1970 and ’71 who were real players. One of the guys actually had an alias and fake ID. He used that persona when he was out chasing women. We were supposed to remember to use his pseudonym when we were together at a bar. Naturally, after a few beers, one of us always slipped up and used his real name. He looked a lot like Warner Oland, the guy who played detective Charlie Chan in the movies, so we started calling him ‘Chan’ all the time, at work and everywhere else. His wife even started calling him ‘Chan.’ She didn’t stay his wife for long after his womanizing escalated. 

We could schedule evening meetings with people who had been injured in car accidents with whom we needed to settle claims. That would get us out of the house. We’d meet up after our appointments, if we actually had one at all, and go to bars. They most always picked up women who would take them home. I didn’t, but I did participate in drinking and dancing with women as if I were available and interested. Occasionally, I’d find someone to take outside and get into some heavy making-out in one of our cars. One of our favorite stops was a weekly meeting of a group called Parents Without Partners. It was exactly what it sounds like: a body exchange with the clubhouse being a local nightclub. We didn’t belong there because we all had kids and partners. You can’t spin any good guy scenario out of that.”

I pulled away from Erin so she had to turn her head to look directly at me. “Do you see what I mean about telling these stories? They always come out short and incomplete because they lack depth. No depth in feelings, no future, no sincerity, and no reason beyond self-gratification to tell them.

“When I started feeling my wanderlust, I divorced my wives before I took much action. They both were pretty surprised.

“Erin, what’s your story? You’ve read a lot of mine and I’m interested in what you’ve experienced. If I know more about you, I can write more about us––not necessarily you and me, but ‘us’ collectively––the phenomenon of first love.”

She returned her head to my shoulder and snuggled closer. “Oh Wally, I’m just me. I haven’t changed. You know exactly who I am because I’m who I’ve always been. I love my life. I love my family. I’ve never had lofty goals. I liked most of the jobs I’ve had, but none consumed me. I’m completely filled with being Mom and a partner to Jerry. My entire bucket list is to be Grandma. 

“Quite obviously, I have a soft spot for you. Being in this backseat with you is the craziest thing I’ve ever done.” She became coy and looked away. “That doesn’t mean I’d like to change my life. I think you are on to something real with your ‘first love is special’ theory. 

“I’m really happy and really late. I hate to, but I need to go. Do you remember how we had such a hard time saying ‘good night’ at my back door when we were kids? Well, nothing seems to have changed.” 

I pulled her back close in a warm embrace. She wrapped her arms around my neck for one more kiss. 

“I really don’t want this to end, but it just has to.” 

Erin sat back away from me and we simply looked at each other at arm’s length, soaking in what we hadn’t seen for 30 years.

She opened her door and snow fell from the car. 

“I find this all extremely personal and difficult to put into words. I’ll leave that to you.”

Erin finally straightened her sweater and buttoned her coat. During our closeness, at one point, I pulled her on top of me to hold her. She straddled my lap for several minutes and then slid off the other side. When we switched to the back seat, she got in the passenger-side door, but was now sitting behind the driver’s side, so, when she stepped out, she stepped into the street. 

“You really are better off without me,” I assured her once again through the open car door.

I watched as snow fell away to the curb when I opened my door, just like it did on Erin’s side. I stepped out into the night. The quiet had only intensified during our time in the car. The snow was still falling and I, alone, watched Erin’s blurred form walk away.

I whispered in an attempt not to disturb the stillness, “Maybe your aura will help me write this next chapter. Maybe this will be the defining one.” 

I watched every step she took and admired her presence in this misty, made-for-a-photograph scene. I wished our friend, Aiden Croft, could be here to take the picture. The festive holiday decorations were no competition to overshadow the spirit of loneliness created by a woman walking away in this dimly lit, now brumal, setting. Aiden and I could have argued for hours whether his photo or my commentary caught the essence. I longed for the chance to have that debate. 

She finally disappeared from sight and I resigned myself to the fact that I would, once again, be without her. 

“I still don’t know why you’re in Porter.”

 

  

WINTERS COME AND WINTERS GO

Terry Donnelly 

Dec 25, 2019 |  

 

There is much joy today celebrating the spirit of Christmas Day. Tonight, homes will become quiet and peaceful in both reflection on the holiday and pensive about what is yet to come. The excitement of the season leading up to today, and the bustling activity brought the celebration to its crescendo and now will yield to night––the gateway to tomorrow. To illustrate, there is no better representation of the quiet of a content and sleeping family than the stories of the Tomten. Viktor Rydberg wrote the poem in 1881 and Astrid Lindgren retold one of the stories in her 1961 picture book with classic illustrations by Harald Wiberg.

In Scotland they are called Boggarts; in Ireland, Leprechauns; elsewhere Gnomes, or Gremlin; to Shakespeare it was Puck. Tomten are the Swedish version of solitary, mischievous sprites who lurk, out of sight, around corners, lodged in pantries, or burrowed beneath piles of hay in a farmer’s barn. They take on the awesome responsibility of protecting the welfare of homes and farmsteads. Tomten are most needed on the long, cold winter nights, especially this night, Christmas night.

The family Tomten is seen by farm animals, pets, and children, but never by adults. He is gleeful in making his presence known to the adults by leaving a small, melting dollop of snow in the hall from his tiny footprint. “How did that snow get in here over night?” the father may ask rubbing his chin in question. The Tomten often likes to hide in corners and watch Father scratch his head as he realizes he’s already read these few pages in his book. Tomten moved the bookmark. Mother isn’t immune. She wonders how her cross-stitch project got several stitches further along and whatever happened to that last swallow of cranberry juice she was saving for breakfast?      

Tomten doesn’t just tease adults. He has a long list of important tasks to perform around the farm every night. He comforts each farm animal with a silent language that they exclusively share. He can ease any discomfort of cows lowing in the barn and provide warmth for his friend the dog in his kennel by building a soft and cozy nest of straw. Tomten watches as the dog happily begins to dream of chasing rabbits and barking at birds.

Farm buildings are Tomten’s venue. He treks, seen or heard by no one, between sheds and barns. Checking to be sure all is closed up tight for the night. If he finds an open gate, he closes it with only a faint squeak from a rusting hinge and the subtle click of the latch momentarily interrupting the silence.

Tomten saves his most important duty for last––the children. He creeps into their room and through the dim illumination of the nightlight he checks to see if they are properly tucked in and safe. Occasionally one is stirring and awake. On these nights Tomten pulls up a chair and sits next to the youngster and they chat about the mysteries of life. Soon, reassured, and with a smile, the child finds blissful sleep.

He assures every child that this deep, dark, cold winter, when everything outside they love to explore and play in during summer seems to have gone forever, is simply resting and renewing for an even better spring. Spring is on the way and even though these days seem short and dark, if they pay close attention, children can see the sun shining earlier and setting later each day as a promise of warm weather on its way.

Tomten knows of such things because of his solitary life. He has hours and hours to spend in contemplation. Because he is old, his philosophy is sound and respected by the children and animals. Even though the parents do not share in his stories and comforting thoughts, he is their solemn partner in managing the farm and assisting the children along the path of the wide-world’s ways. They will remember him, be comforted, and assured by their memory of him long after they can no longer see or talk to him.

With his chores now complete and a few hours to go before the sun will begin to stir activity on the farm, Tomten wends his way back through the maze of buildings to his corner in the hayloft. There the cat is waiting. She is expecting him and the milk Tomten always provides. “Tomten talks to the cat in Tomten language, a silent little language a cat can understand. ‘Of course you may stay with me, and of course I will give you milk.’” *

Now everyone is asleep. The adults have been quiet for hours and Tomten has soothed the anxious child. Even the cat is purring, nestled in the hay, after her treat of warm milk. Everyone is asleep––everyone but one. To this Tomten the sign that summer is near will be the return of the swallows. Now, he can rest and enjoy his own dreams. “Winters come and winters go, Summers come and summers go, Soon the swallows will be here.”* He respects the quiet and knowingly smiles because, due to his care, the biting cold will not adversely affect his family. Now everyone can, in their own way, look forward to the return of the swallows.

*”The Tomten,” Astrid Lindgren.