Rules Get Broken (33 page)

“Yeah. Well…I…uh…don’t know whether to shake hands or give you a kiss or what.”

“Let’s just shake hands,” Kate replied flatly, and she extended her hand up to me.

Three minutes later, I reached the sidewalk in front of Kate’s building and started the two-block walk to my car. As I walked down the empty sidewalk, I tried to understand what had made me leave Kate. My adolescent fantasy could have come true tonight, I realized, but I’d run away. I wondered why, but the answer eluded me. Instead I found myself wondering where Nancy was at that moment.

Dave was wrong. Four dates with four very different women convinced me of that. Maybe he had been right in theory when he said I shouldn’t be seeing only one person, but I wasn’t living in theory. I was living in the shadow of Peg’s memory. Whenever I thought of her or looked at my children or at the woman who now managed my home, first sadness, then loneliness, then terror swept over me, and I felt an irresistible urge to run away, away from all the things that were not as they were supposed to be.

So I did. I ran away. But only to Nancy. Because only with Nancy could I forget. Theory be damned.

And some nights, even with Nancy, I couldn’t forget. The memories would be too much to handle; the tears would start, and they wouldn’t stop. Nancy would hold my hand or stroke my head, and she’d listen and let me cry. When I was finished crying, she’d tell me that she understood and that everything was going to be all right. And the storm would be over. For the moment.

But escape was essential. Escape from a world turned upside down. From a world of what had been but was no more. Escape to a place of warmth, understanding and safety.

Escape was non-negotiable. I had to be with Nancy to survive. I found that I could live in my new world, with all its darkness, but only, only, if I were able to rise to the surface now and then for a breath of the fresh air and a glimpse of the light that Nancy brought me.

Foolishly, I never thought about the effect my behavior was having on Nancy. I never reflected on how difficult it was for her to see me cry over the memory of a woman I still loved. I never wondered how long she’d be able to listen to me talk about Peg before she decided she couldn’t listen anymore. I never noticed she stopped asking questions about Peg, and I never saw how she looked at me sometimes. I never realized how deeply involved with me she was getting, which meant I didn’t worry about what might happen to her if things didn’t work out. I was like a drowning man—so terrified at the prospect of losing his own life that he endangers the life of the person who swims out to save him. I only knew I wanted to survive, and Nancy was making that possible.

But Nancy was no fool. She knew she was exposing herself to heartache, and she knew the emotional investment she was making would probably be for naught. But she ignored her concerns and fears. Instead she took our relationship and its risks one day at a time. She tried not to worry about the future and endeavored to enjoy the time we had together —for however long that turned out to be.

Nancy and I saw one another through November. We spent most of our time together alone, insulated. No one took notice of us. No one demanded either an explanation from us for our actions or retribution from us for having dared to ignore their conventions. Everyone—family and friends—simply left us alone—uncriticized, unaccountable—expecting me eventually to behave properly and us to go our separate ways.

But then came December, and December is different. December is a time for celebration. A time for parties. Christmas parties. New Year’s parties. A time of lights and carols and candles and presents. A time to eat and drink. A time to be with people celebrating a wonderfully religious time of year or a wonderfully sentimental time of year or both. A time to be with people celebrating the end of the year just past and the promise of the new year about to begin. December is not a time to be insulated or withdrawn. It’s a time for inclusion. A time to embrace the people you love and the people you like and even the people you just know in passing.

So in December, Nancy and I emerged and allowed ourselves to be drawn into the rhythm of the season. Friends extended holiday party invitations to us, and we accepted. First to Amy and Frank Bennett’s for a Christmas party the Saturday night before Christmas. Then to Bob and Audrey Weber’s for a cocktail party the Saturday night after Christmas. And then out to dinner with Beth and Dave Clayton on New Year’s Eve, to put 1980 behind us and step forward into 1981.

But emergence brought visibility. And visibility brought examination. And examination brought criticism. And criticism brought guilt…and pain. Much of the pain was caused by others. Sometimes intentionally. Sometimes not. Some of the pain we created ourselves. The pain that each month brought—from January through the following December—took its toll on us, punished us and threatened to break us apart.

We sat across from one another in a booth at a diner a mile or so from Nancy’s apartment. Although it was only ten-thirty New Year’s Day morning, the diner was filled to capacity, and we had gotten the last table.

“You don’t look too good this morning,” I said to Nancy.

“I feel like hell. I was up all night crying. I didn’t sleep at all.”

“That explains your eyes then. They’re all swollen and bloodshot. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you really tied one on.”

“I wish I had. Maybe then everything that happened last night wouldn’t hurt so much.”

I reached across the table to take one of Nancy’s hands in mine, but she pulled her hand away and looked around the diner. She shook her head and sighed deeply.

“Last night with Dave and Beth was so bad…I can’t believe it. And then our conversation when we got back to the apartment…What a terrible New Year’s Eve.” She looked at me sadly. “Do you really have to go to lunch with your parents this afternoon? Can’t we spend the day together?”

“Nan, we talked about this last night. Do I have to go? No. Do I want to go? Not really. But my folks asked me to go with them, and I said yes—I probably shouldn’t have, but I did—and I can’t back out now.”

“But they asked you to go so these friends of theirs can introduce you to their daughter. That’s why your parents asked you, and that’s why you’re going, and that’s what really hurts me.”

“I know, but I’ll only be there for a few hours, and I’m sure as hell not going to get involved with this woman.”

“That’s not the point,” Nancy said. “The point is you’re not going to be with me today because you’re spending the afternoon with another woman you haven’t even met.”

“Why are you getting so upset, Nan? You know I’ve seen other people over the past few months. What’s the big deal about this, other than we won’t be together this afternoon?”

“How would you feel if I went out with someone else? You wouldn’t like that one bit, would you? That’s the big deal.”

“Nan, I never said you couldn’t go out with other people. You just haven’t.”

“Are you saying you don’t care if I do?”

“I’m not saying I don’t care. All I’m saying is I wouldn’t get upset if you did. Not like you’re getting upset now. Sure, I’d prefer you didn’t go out with anyone else, but…I’d understand if you did.”

Nancy looked at me for several seconds and then stared at the open menu in front of her for half a minute before closing it.

“Let’s go,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “This isn’t getting either of us anywhere, and if I’m going to cry, I’d rather do it in my apartment. Alone.”

“You don’t want breakfast?”

She shook her head.

“Not even coffee?”

“I want to leave, and I want to be alone. Can we go now?”

I closed my menu and followed Nancy out to my car.

1981 was not starting out particularly well.

Snow was falling steadily on Tuesday night, January 6th, as we traveled west from the Cleveland airport on our way to Toledo. We’d been on the road for forty-five minutes, but thanks to poor visibility and lower than normal speed on I-90, we’d gone less than forty miles, which meant we wouldn’t arrive at our hotel until well after midnight.

I was traveling with Larry Thomas, our district sales manager for Ohio, Kentucky, Indiana and Pennsylvania, and we were on our way to Toledo for two days of sales calls. Larry had met my flight from New York, and our conversation had been lively for the first thirty minutes of our drive. But as the snow continued to fall and our speed continued to drop, Larry fell silent—undoubtedly in part because he was driving and sensed the need for extra diligence, but also probably because, like me, he was beginning to realize this was going to be a long night.

The white flakes racing into our headlight beams were giving me a headache, so I turned away from the windshield to look out the passenger side window. Every few minutes I was able to make out the lights of a farmhouse or a barn or a car on a distant country road, but otherwise the snow obscured what little there was to be seen. The view through the window was one of snowflakes hurtling past me and featureless blackness. Mile after mile, Larry and I sat in silence except for the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers and the muffled roar of the defroster. The silence inside the car coupled with the impenetrable blackness outside made me feel uneasy.

Wonder what Nancy’s doing tonight
, I thought as I watched a rivulet of melting snow run down the window.
Probably waiting for me to call her. Which isn’t going to happen. Not tonight anyway.

Miss her?
the voice asked suddenly.

I was surprised at the voice’s appearance. I hadn’t heard the voice in almost two months, and I’d assumed it was gone and wouldn’t return. But here it was, clear and strong as ever.

“Yeah, I do,” I replied. “I always do.”

Why?
the voice asked, probing, prying, same as before.

I sighed, knowing the answer but not wanting to acknowledge it. “Because when I’m not with her, I’m scared.”

Scared? What are you scared of?

“Lots of things.”

Like what?
the voice pressed, persistent in its quest for answers.

“I’m scared of living alone for the rest of my life. I’m scared of everything that means.”

I turned away from the window and stared through the windshield, squinting at the brightness of the snow in our headlights.

“I’m scared for my kids. Scared about the kind of childhood they’ll have without a mother. Scared about how they’ll turn out. I’m scared something might happen to me. What happens to Jennie and John then? Hell, I could die tonight in this goddamned snowstorm.

“I’m scared there’s something wrong with me. Because I haven’t grieved for Peg the way I was supposed to. The way I should have. I found Nancy, and I ran away from everything to her.”

You’re not scared when you’re with Nancy?
the voice asked.

“No, I’m not.”

Why?

“Because when I’m with her, I don’t worry about the rest of my life; I just think about today and how good today is. And…because I love her.”

You what?

“I love her,” I repeated.

How can you say that?
the voice asked, its tone harsher now, more critical.

“Why shouldn’t I say it? It’s true.”

I thought I heard a familiar sigh.
John, John, John
, the voice began condescendingly.
We’ve been over this before. How many times do we need to have the same conversation before you get it into your head? You lost Peg only four and a half months ago. You started going out with Nancy two weeks after Peg died. And you’ve been going out with her ever since—two, three times a week. You’re a hurtin’ puppy, my friend, and although you don’t know it, you’re not capable of loving Nancy. Not really loving her. Needing her? Sure. Loving her? No way. Sorry, pal, but you’re making a huge mistake if you think you love this kid. You’re confusing need with love, and there’s a big difference between the two. Big difference. So please…don’t tell me you love Nancy, because you don’t. You can’t. And for God’s sake, don’t make matters worse by telling Nancy you love her. Don’t do that, whatever you do
.

“You want to listen to something on the radio?” Larry asked.

“Sure, if you want to,” I replied distractedly, startled at the sudden intrusion into my most personal thoughts.

A disc jockey announced a song by Hank Williams. I looked out at the snow swirling all around us.

“You’re wrong,” I said to the voice. “I do love her. I know I do.”

I caught a three-forty flight out of Cleveland on Friday afternoon, January 9th. By seven-twenty I was at Nancy’s apartment. We both felt like having Chinese food, so I suggested Long’s in Hicksville—a thirty-minute drive, but worth the effort.

We arrived at Long’s a few minutes after eight and were shown to a table immediately, a pleasant surprise for a Friday night at that hour. We ordered drinks and had just started to look at our menus when our waiter returned barely a minute later.

“So except for the weather, I gather your trip this week was good,” Nancy said, taking a sip of her Tom Collins.

“Yeah, it was. I think Larry and I made some real progress on a couple of big potential orders.”

I gave the lemon skin in my vodka an extra twist and savored a long swallow, grateful that my four days on the road were behind me.

“How was your week?” I asked.

“All right,” Nancy replied. “Really quiet at the office, though. Post holiday doldrums in the advertising world, I guess.”

“Did I tell you I tried to call you Tuesday night?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, I did. I didn’t get into my room until after midnight because of the snow, but I figured I’d give you a quick call anyway just to say hello. When you didn’t answer, I thought maybe you’d decided not to, given the hour.”

Nancy took another sip of her drink and looked across the table at me. “I wasn’t home Tuesday night.”

“At that hour? Where were you?”

“At my parents’.”