A WEEKEND IN BOSTON, 1979

(first published September 2008)

© Lori Hahn, 2008

Chapter One

 

The wind had picked up and forced its way through the screen door to wrestle the dead air hanging in my room.  It was that peculiar time when dreams keep you halfway between two worlds.  The breeze wiggled across the room and gently touched my face, which reminded me that Gina would be bounding over to lick me at any moment so we could play out our roles until she got to the dog park.  Precisely on schedule, the alarm buzzed annoyingly and the Spanish radio station I had the radio tuned to screamed into my consciousness. 

 

I slammed my arm over the snooze and rolled over.  My dream, which recurred regularly most of my adult life, had me sprawled out on green, supple grass, looking up into the blue sky smiling and laughing as my lover’s fingers lazily and lovingly teased me.  Her face was never clear, but the carefree feeling I had when I woke from this particular dream carried me through many responsibility-laden days.  They seemed to visit when the nights were a little darker and the days a bit more onerous.  My lazy lover came to me very often since I ended my last major relationship.   Maybe just this once, the dream would be concluded.

 

My cell phone leaped to life, comically bouncing across the table from the vibration of an incoming call.  Men at Work’s, “Who Can It Be Now?” signaled it was not a regular caller.  Damn.  I kept my eyes tightly closed as I reached across the nightstand in hopes I’d keep that lazy lover alive for a while longer.

 

“This is Lori,” I slurred, hoping against hope it wasn’t one of my East Coast colleagues who’d forgotten we were in different time zones who would ask me a question requiring active brain cells.

 

“Is this Lori Hahn?” the elderly male voice inquired cautiously.  I heard a bit of Boston in his voice, but held off committing to my analysis.

 

“Yes, this is she.  How can I help you?”  I more than reluctantly gave in to being awake and opened my eyes.  “Bye lazy lover.  I hope you come back tonight,” I thought to myself and sighed heavily.  I grasped successfully for the glass of water by the bed and took a deep drink.  I managed to get up without the usual groan I associated with pushing 50 and walked to the refrigerator in my black and gray boxers and “Plays Well in Bed” t-shirt and swung open the door with gleeful anticipation of the Mountain Dew that faithfully waited for me every morning.  I grabbed it, popped the top, and inhaled the ecstasy of the Dew.

 

“Mrs. Hahn, I don’t know quite how to start…” he began.

 

“Whoa, whoa.  First off, I’m not Mrs. Hahn.  And, why don’t you start at the beginning, unless you are selling Comcast service.  In that case, I’ll need to ring off.”

 

“No, no, Ms. Hahn, please…it’s just such a strange call to be making.  I had it all planned out in my mind, but then, well, you answered.  I have to admit,” he paused, “I was hoping for voicemail.”  He chuckled just enough for me to know he was not a stodgy old coot.  But, he was definitely from Boston.

 

“So, Mr…” I began.

 

“My name is Barry Wildman.  I’m the executor of the estate of someone who recently passed away.  It’s my job to find the persons mentioned in the decedent’s will.”

 

Well, from where I stood I couldn’t remember the last time I was out Boston way.  I think it was the late 70s and I was safely tucked away at Fort Devens, as a combat boot wearing, fresh-faced soldier.  No one in my family would leave me any money, they have none.  And I don’t think any of them had a connection to Boston.  I decided to just sit tight.

 

He didn’t let me down.  “And, well, you are on the list of people to contact.  Do you remember a Jane Williams while you lived in Ayer?”

 

I searched the memory banks.  It wasn’t ringing any bells.  Suddenly, my eyes widened as a flood of vague recollection of that time and place assaulted me in a way far more profound than the caffeine in the second Mountain Dew I’d just started.  I began to have this fuzzy recall of a verse I used to utter at the most inappropriate times – like while performing Charge of Quarters duty at Devens or while analyzing recent enemy troop movements.  It was a poem – who was it by?  Oh, yes, Percy Bysshe Shelly:

 

The keen stars were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane.
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them
Again.

 

Then, the swaying, lithesome visage appeared.  Jane.  I’d allowed myself to forget about her over the course of years, but there she was, gracefully moving to the music in front of me.  What was the music?  I ran my fingers through my hair in a futile attempt to remember more.

 

“And, that, dear Lori, is why I’m calling.  Jane passed away nearly a year ago.  I’ve been searching for you since.  I had the honor of not only being her executor, but also her best friend these past 28 years.  You seem to move around a bit.  We need to talk.”

 

Chapter 2

 

Fate was bizarrely kind to me, I’d decided.  My boss called that very afternoon alerting me to a meeting I needed to attend in Boston that he was not going to be able to make because of nanny issues.  A quick couple of calls and Uncle Doreen and Viv had the kids covered.  I decided to add a day in over the weekend to meet with the cryptic Mr. Wildman.  We’d arranged to meet at his apartment in the South End over on Tremont Street on Saturday.  I was marveling that anyone would want to live there, but heard that since back in my day, it’s become quite gentrified.  I had my book, my camera, and my wallet.  I was ready to roll.  Google maps in hand, I shoved them into the outer pocket of my beat-up old black roller bag that was still emblazoned with a big piece of red duct tape which saved me no end of time in endless airport baggage carousels over the course of years and then, I jumped into the cab to the airport.

 

iPod ready, I boarded the sleek American Airlines Boeing 767. At least it would be a comfortable ride and the music would seep into my subconscious instead of the relentless pull of trying to remember.  I’d been listening to 70s tunes since Wildman called, hoping it would spur some more memory.  Boston, Firefall, Gerry Rafferty, Earth Wind & Fire, Gladys Knight, Gino Vanelli, Holly & the Italians, Eric Clapton, The Bee Gees, Donna Summer, Gloria Gaynor, and Chic.  It was the age of disco, where polyester was then what pants sagging down to the knees are now.   A man behind me who was lifting his bag to drop into the overhead was staring at me – I always got looks with my one iPod ear bud in; I’d cut the other one off since it did my deaf ear no good.  At least, I think that’s why he was staring.  Maybe I had broccoli on my teeth.  I gave him a closed mouth smile just in case and turned back to finish loading my bag in the overhead and ducked into my seat.

 

Settled comfortably into my preferred aisle spot after the other two seats finally filled, I snapped my seat belt on snugly, just as I knew the attendant would later instruct.  Glancing around, I quickly assessed who the rookie passengers were and how far I would be from the nearest screaming baby. 

 

Once again I veered into attempting to recall the finer details of Jane, but there were gaps a mile wide. Much like a lot of my time stationed in that beautiful, forested countryside 30 minutes from Beantown when my weekends were filled with dancing and tipping back brews with my comrades.  I just couldn’t figure out what was blocking me from remembering something I had a feeling I should remember vividly.  But, like walking into a room and not remembering what brought you there, I figured if I retraced my steps, the answer would become clear.

 

Occasionally, during the ride, out would pop a snippet of the faces of friends whose names I’d forgotten, the layout of the second floor of the barracks where I lived, the sensory memories of a Greek restaurant located not too far outside of the gate, and a glancing memory of standing at the Greyhound stop outside what passed for a general store on the main street.  I was just a kid then.  I had known nothing.  If curiosity would not have killed me, I would have given the whole visit with Mr. Wildman a pass.  And, I had a work meeting to prepare for – later.

 

Looking down at the iPod, I switched to the Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin/Rosemary Clooney playlist, opened David Sedaris’ When You Are Engulfed in Flames, and started reading.

 

Hours later, I heard the familiar, “Please return all seatbacks and tray tables to their upright position,” opened my eyes, picked up the book that had fallen to the floor, and surreptitiously wiped the drool from my chin. 

 

Outside the window, the nighttime sky was clear, the moon high and intense, the stars twinkled in greeting, and the brightly lit cityscape was laid out before me.   I then looked down and was struck how little it had all changed as the plane started its rapid descent directly into the dark water surrounding Logan International Airport.  At just the last moment, disaster was averted, as it almost always was, and the wheels safely touched the runway.

 

The cab dropped me at the Hilton in the Financial District.  Lucky me getting to snag the upgraded accommodations that my boss had booked for himself.  The area looked a lot more lively and clean than I remembered it, but I was too tired to give it much more thought.

 

I walked into the room, tossed my bag on the bed, and flipped on the television to catch the last of the 11 o’clock news while I got ready for bed.  Unfreakinbelievable.  Jack Williams was still anchoring at WBZ.  I was thinking, “Man, he got old and gray,” as I looked in the mirror while brushing my teeth and noticed my own crow’s feet and sprouts of gray, but just as swiftly chose to ignore them as generations of women in my family had chosen to ignore theirs until the day they woke up with a full head of white hair. 

 

Slipping into the sheets, I was asleep, as is my M.O., in twelve seconds flat.  A dark, dreamless sleep led me quietly into the next sunrise.

 

My meeting lasted most of the day.  I hadn’t been to the Boston office before, but was surprised by the fact there were so many smart people with way too much to do jamming to fit as much into their Friday as quickly as possible.  The weekend awaited us, and we were all more than happy to breeze through the lunch hour and cut out at 4 pm.

 

I grabbed some food at Tiernan’s on Broad and went back to the room, called the kids, and rented “Bound.”  I never got tired of seeing Jennifer Tilly telling Gina Gershon to “go ahead… touch it.”  After that, I was just waiting for the night to end so I decided to take a walk.  It seemed much safer to me that those barren downtown streets had seemed 30 years ago.

 

After just a couple of minutes, I found myself in a familiar place.  The names and some of the buildings were different, but the places – ah.  This was the street where my friends and I would head on Friday night to dance.  We’d rent a cheap hotel room and bunk up four to a room and head back for the post on Sunday in the early afternoon, often hung over and with empty pockets from spending money buying drinks for beautiful young girls. 

 

There – there was the home of The Saints, the lesbian bar/feminist co-op on Broad and wait, there, that’s where Somewhere was on Franklin.  I was zapped with the memory of watching Tracy Chapman strum her guitar downstairs at Somewhere and thinking, ‘She’s going to be big hit.’”    It was the age of punk too, in Boston, so if you were so inclined you could hit Cavone’s or The Rat – it was a place to get a bit of everything.  But disco, disco was queen upstairs at Somewhere. 

 

I turned and across the road I saw the specter of the young dykes we were—strutting down the street with confidence and purpose. 

 

There we all were:  Renee, the butch from Maine who wore flannel and denim for even the most formal of occasions.  She had a charming smile and a raucous sense of humor that college girls found particularly charming, despite her utter lack of feminist sensibility.  Her sense of chivalry, simplicity and honesty was like baiting a hook with caviar.

 

Marlo, who woke up brunette and gorgeous every morning and did everything she could to hide her beauty before going to work after she’d been sexually assaulted by the drill sergeant in basic training and spent the rest of her time there humiliated and harassed when she reported it and no one did a damned thing.  She was so smart and so beautiful and was so disillusioned with people.  We loved her anyway.  And, we’re pretty sure she loved us.  For our nights out, she did it up big – especially her hair.  She was like buttah on the dance floor.

 

And, there was Sheri – that wasn’t her real name.  Her real name was Myrtle Jesse.  Her parents had run out of names by the time the 16^th kid was born, so they combined the names of her paternal grandparents, who were a branch of a cousin-marrying coal-mining family from West Virginia.  Sheri didn’t see marrying her cousin Bubba in her future, so she did well in school and joined up the minute she was legally able.  Her hair was bleached except for the perpetually black ½-inch roots.

 

Finally, there was me.  The Iowa girl.  The one wearing well-polished rose-colored glasses with an entirely too smart ass.  Dang, I looked skinny.  Man, how did I stand all that long hair so long? 

 

We all loved the girls and we all loved to dance.  And, we had to keep it all on the down low.  So we were careful in creating a cover story and intended destination to the nosy parkers on the barracks floor whenever we took off for the lights of the city.

 

We were the Four Musketeers.  Renee was Athos, Marlo was Pathos, and Sheri was Aramis, and me, I was D’Artagnan.

 

I stood mid-block for a while longer and watched the four girls laughing and pushing each other, lamely trying to trip each other as they raced to see who could get inside the club first.  The unwritten rule was, “First in, first choice.”  If one or another of us found some company for the night, we had a pocketful of dimes to call from a pay phone and check in with each other or leave a message with the motel so we could make arrangements for our return transportation. 

 

It was coming back.  It was.  But would the rest of those memories be sitting all laid out like a fancy English breakfast for me in the morning when I woke up?

Chapter 3

 

South End in the beautiful, crisp morning was like the most perfect street scene out of a movie.  There were cute shops, lots of flowers, green grass in the right spots, charming restaurants, and beautifully restored homes and apartment buildings lining the thoroughfares.  The place was crawling with same-sex couples pushing all kinds of high-end baby carriages.

 

I was almost to the apartment building and quite expected to meet a hunched over little old man living in a dumpy walk up.  As soon as I approached the building, which was clearly a co-op and not a coldwater flat, I knew I better get my imagination in order.

 

I walked to the elevator and went up to 11.  I walked out and across the hall to what appeared to be the only door with a number on the floor.  I rang.  I was met at the door by a very tall, very gorgeous man with skin the color of mocha and well-tended dreads. 

 

“Welcome,” he said in a Jamaican accent as he broke out into a huge smile.  His arms opened wide as he stepped back, bowing slightly, and cleared the path for me to enter.  “I am Jean.  The Mr. has been waiting for you.  He has tea for you in his library.  Come.”  I hardly expected such a welcome and really had no response other than to say, “Thank you.”

 

I took it all in as I followed him down the hallway.  He must own the entire floor.  There was an original Renoir on the wall, tasteful but not ostentatious furnishings, and great colors.  And, oh, what a view of the neighborhood from the living room window!  After what seemed an eternity of walking, I entered the library. 

 

There he was, sitting in an overstuffed red leather chair, his thick head of steel gray hair perfectly groomed, glasses perched on nose, wearing an umber cardigan, Lord & Taylor brown slacks and brown Berluti loafers, reading a book.  I was heartened.  He was also reading Sedaris’ latest. 

 

He looked up, smiled, and carefully placed a bookmark at his page and set the book down on the ottoman.  Most definitely this was a man who was comfortable in both his skin and his wealth. He got up and crossed the room.  I couldn’t help but think he looked an awful lot like a 70-year-old Monte Markham, a handsome old-school TV actor.  Before I could prepare, he opened his arms and wrapped them around me, nearly lifting me off the ground in a very deep hug.

 

“So, at last we meet,” he said, stating the obvious.  “Come, come, sit.  Jean has prepared a lovely little snack for us.  This tea is to die for, you must try it.”

 

I was feeling a little overwhelmed, but allowed him to pour and hand me the cup of tea.

 

“So, Mr. Wildman,” I started.

 

“Call me Barry, please.  I’m just an old Southie queen who ended up here, with a little luck, a lot of hard work, and by paying close attention—to everything.”  He laughed at his joke and looked to me for approval.  I smiled and sat back on the plush leather couch, balancing my saucer on my knee as though it would somehow give me an invisibility cloak should I choose to use it.

 

“So, Barry,” I continued, licking my lips, not sure where to take this.  “I do remember Jane.  I’ve had trouble remembering the specifics relating to Jane though, I must admit.  It’s been rather baffling, in fact, that there seems to be such a dearth of memory.”

 

“That is strange, Lori.  She had such a great recollection of you and every single moment you two spent together.  I must say, I heard it so many times over the years, I felt as though I was in the room with the two of you for its entirety.”  He smiled warmly, reached over, and put his hand on my knee.

 

He took a deep breath before adding, “She kept track of you in her way until she got sick the first time.  I believe that was just before you moved to California.  Jane died nearly a year ago.  It was her third bout with breast cancer.  We thought she had it licked for good the second time, but, it raged – just raged horribly and violently in her the third time.  She suffered so.  I don’t think I’ve ever wished someone to die, but for Jane, I knew it would be her only relief.  I loved her very much.  She was my dearest and closest friend.  Lovers came and went, but Jane, she was always there for me.  We met within weeks of your time with her. I was a protégé of her father’s.”

 

Her father.  Something about her father was coming to me.

 

We chit-chatted for a while.  I thought it sweet of him to notice my shyness and was grateful he was trying to put me at ease.  He was a very kind man and I could see why he would be a good and loyal lifetime friend.  We talked about my trip to Boston, how the South End had changed, and the landscape for gays and lesbians and our political fights and future before he shifted back to Jane.

 

“Lori, Jane left you a letter.  She was adamant that I find you and let you read it.  If you have questions, I’m to answer.  If you want to walk away, I’m told you should be graciously shown the door.”  He got up and walked around the mahogany desk at the back of the office and opened a drawer.  Slowly, he pulled out a photograph.  He walked back around and showed it to me.

 

Jane.  Willowy and supple and full of grace in a colorful sundress.  She was dancing in a field.  She looked as though she didn’t know anyone was there, recording her movement.  I recalled standing in her apartment, watching her as she closed her eyes and started moving to Phoebe Snow’s, “Poetry Man.”  I remember seeing the sadness that enveloped her all night shift as the music reached into her, causing me to reach out to her, pulling her into my arms, allowing our rhythms to become one.  I remember her scent – one part Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps, three parts Jane, and the way she sighed into my shoulder as we turned.

 

Barry reached down to his book and pulled out some papers and handed them to me, eyebrows raised, as though I might take this moment to flee.  Perhaps I looked as though I might. 

 

 

Barry chimed in, breaking my concentration and said, “I’ll leave you now.  I’m going out on the patio and tend to the herbs.”  He walked to me and reached out his hand, squeezing my shoulder in reassurance, then silently vanished into the vast expanse of his home.

 

I shook my head to regain my focus and I continued to read.

 

 

Yes, Jane. I do now.

As the moon’s soft splendour
O’er the faint cold starlight of Heaven
Is thrown,
So your voice most tender
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.

Chapter 4

 

The sound of Cool & the Gang’s Celebration poured out into the street in front of the club.  It always got me in the mood to dance and gave me that little extra boost to race into the club first.

 

“D’Artagnan wins,” I yelled to the remaining Musketeers over my shoulder as my foot hit the entryway ahead of them.  Of course, the top half of me careened in a little faster than the bottom, so I was headlong, grappling to get my balance before running into the very intimidating stone butch door security guard whose massiveness would have seriously injured me if I did not right myself in time.  “It’s going to be a great night, and I say, I get the blondes.”

 

“Now, D’Artagnan, ya’ll know you have to pick just one, the rules is the rules,” Sheri/Aramis drawled.  Touching up her white sparkly lipstick as she sauntered towards the stairs, letting her breast more than brush against the stone butch as she smiled coyly at her, thus assuring protection throughout the course of the evening

 

“Yeah, buddy, that just isn’t right.  If you do that, then next time we come, and I get here first, all the femmes are mine,” Renee/Athos asserted, running her comb through her hair and effortlessly sliding it back into her jeans pocket.  She lifted her left leg up and rubbed the top of her boot on at the back of her calf, removing any real or perceived scuffs that might detract from her stud butch look.

 

Marlo/Pathos, rolling her eyes, coolly slid in seconds after the rest of us, “Please, the three of you.  Just go upstairs, order some drinks, and let’s dance.  Stop acting like 12-year-olds.” 

 

Up the stairs we ran, checking out the endless flow of women of every variety moving up and down the stairs.  Over to the bar we moved, queuing up for our drinks.  Mine was easy – Miller Lite.  Renee ordered her usual confidence-building boilermaker. Marlo, her usual non-committal Rum & Coke. And Sheri, a Tequila Sunrise.  She never failed to marvel with childlike innocence at the cherry and little umbrella.

 

Off we moved to a table at the edge of the dance floor.  The disco ball was spinning along with all the Tony Manero and Stephanie Mangano wannabes, each trying to be the couple that stops all the others dead in their tracks with their fabulous moves.

 

“Look over there, hun,” Sheri pointed as we all craned our necks in unison. Perfect.  A table of four very attractive girls, all staring at us staring at them.  Alicia Bridge’s I Love the Nightlife started to play.

 

Renee wasted no time and swaggered over to the petite redhead with the freckles and killer curves, whispering something in her ear.  A millisecond later, Renee was guiding her partner to the dance floor, careful to wink at us as she strutted by.

 

Marlo waited for the stylish soft butch to approach her and then off she went, rolling her eyes as though it had not been in her plans at all. 

 

The friend of soft butch, a Tony Manera wannabe, came up to Sheri and willed her from her chair with her cool, blue eyes.  Sheri stood up, hooked the strap of her heel back on her foot, took one last sip of her Sunrise and headed out.

 

I looked across to the other table and wrestled internally with the fact that if I wanted to dance, it would require me to ask.  I counted, “One, two, three…here I go…” as I launched out of my chair, tripping over the leg of the chair next to me on my way.  I looked up with an embarrassed grin and stuck out my hand.  “Care to?” I asked.  She laughed and smiled quite nicely, “Only if you promise not to trip on me!”  I led her to the dance floor just as Peaches & Herb’s Reunited began playing. 

 

Quickly scanning the room, I spotted all of my friends shifting to the slower tempo, wrapping arms in appropriate places as heads were placed on new shoulders.  I followed suit.  A few couples over, I noticed this tall blonde woman who looked to be in her late 20s, pulling away from her dance partner, a handsome  but extremely unpleasant looking woman in her late 30s.  I heard indistinguishable, angry words coming from the older one.  The younger one was crying and tried to leave the dance floor.  The older one grabbed her arm, brought her back to her and pulled her other arm up, slapping the face of the younger one with such force I could hear it over the music from halfway across the dance floor.

 

I let go of my dance partner and moved quickly to the scene.  Without thinking, I grabbed the arm of the older one who already had her arm in mid-air for another crack at the younger one.

 

“Stop!”  I shouted over the music.  I wondered briefly if that was me who spoke, because it sounded so authoritative, but the woman put her arm down immediately and I released my grip on her arm.  I should have expected it, but the older one clenched her other fist and raised her arm to punch me.  She must have been drunk, because she was slower than Ali in his latest fight with Leon Spinks – I ducked with plenty of time to spare.  Within seconds, the other Musketeers were surrounding her, advising her in no uncertain terms that another move would be bad for her health.  Security moved in, including Sheri’s protector, who whispered something in Sheri’s ear that caused her to blush, and hauled the woman out the door, down the steps, and out onto the street.

 

The younger one stood there, immovable, and naked to the world.  She was crying.  Her cheek was fire red – she was humiliated.  And, she was absolutely the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.  She lifted her chin, and looked directly at me, the tears brimming in front of her wide indigo eyes.

 

“Thank you.  I need to go home now.  But, thank you.”  She put her hand to her cheek and inhaled sharply.

 

“Do you live with that?” I asked, moving my head in the direction of the exit path of the not-so-dearly-departed older woman.  I was definitely feeling a little more butch than normal. 

 

She looked down again and whispered, “No, no, not anymore.” 

 

“But she knows where you live?”  My concern was growing.

 

She nodded.

 

“I’m not letting you go home alone.  It’s not safe.  Wait here a minute and I’ll let my friends know that I’m just going to get you home and make sure we know how to reach each other later.”  I told her, rather than asked her.  I rubbed my hand on her arm to reassure her, and laughingly added, “I’m a trained killer, you know.”  She weakly attempted a sad smile, but she stood where she was.

 

My valiant Musketeers were huddled together, waiting anxiously to hear what was next. 

 

“What the hell is up with that one?” Renee asked.  “Man that was cool.  I would have loved to kick that woman’s ass.  Damn security.” 

 

“Hun, you aren’t going to do another rescue are you?  You remember last time you did that, you ended up having your parade rained on and your wallet emptied.”  Sheri added. 

 

“Lori.  You better show up on time to go home.  You know I have to wash my delicates Sunday evening.”  Marlo snorted.

 

I gave them the rundown and assured them I’d call them if there was any other trouble, and would most definitely be on time as we made our arrangements, and I went back to the woman and helped guide her out of the club. 

 

As we descended the stairs, I heard Donna Summer singing MacArthur Park.

 

We stood facing each other at the foot of the stairs outside of an apartment building that saw its best days at the beginning of the war – The Revolutionary War.  I looked down at my feet, and said, “Listen, there is a chance she’s going to sober up, get embarrassed, then drink some more and get pissed and come over here, is my guess.”

 

“Yes, that would probably be about right,” she said in her quiet, dejected way as she interlaced her fingers in front of her.

 

“I’m not trying to get up in your business so much, but I need to know you’re going to be safe.  Will you let me come up for a while?  Just until after the bars close and I know she isn’t going to come pounding at your door?”  It was her turn to look down.

 

I continued, “Hey, how about this?  We walked by that little store a couple of blocks back – I’ll go get us some ice cream and some root beer and we’ll make a couple floats – sound good?”

 

That got a deep and sincere laugh from her.  She nodded, “When you get back, ring 5, I’ll buzz you up.”

 

I zipped back to the store, where Colt 45 had its own wall of refrigerated cases, and grabbed the vanilla ice cream and a couple of root beers.  I stopped briefly and dropped a dime in the pay phone outside the store.  I left a message with the motel’s front desk to let the Musketeers know I wouldn’t be coming home tonight.  I ran back full throttle, ran up the steps of the brownstone, and rang 5. 

 

“Hey,” she said, hanging out the window with two spoons in her hand, “Just a second.”

 

The buzzer sounded and I raced up the stairs to the third floor and stood, breathless for several reasons, and knocked.  I pulled out the ice cream container and held it in front of me just as she swung open the door.

 

“Now we can eat it, or we can put it up against your cheek.”  She laughed. I scanned the room.  It was clean, that’s for sure, but it was just a one bedroom and a kitchenette.  The old wallpaper was peeling to reveal even older wallpaper.  The furnishings were worn – decrepit even; she’d covered them with sheets.  There was a little table in the kitchen with one lone metal folding chair.

 

“We were together for a while.  I seemed to have lowered my standards far enough that she was all that remained.  I left her six months ago.  She begged and begged for me to come back, but I wouldn’t.  Tonight, when I saw her at the club, I thought dancing with her was the path of least resistance.” 

 

Turning to look into her eyes, I said, “You deserve better.” 

 

“You don’t know me well enough to say that.” 

 

I got up to walk the three feet across the room, and bent over next to the turntable, which was precariously sitting on a stack of boxes, covered with a tablecloth, fashioned into a table, to scan through the albums sitting next to it.  I pulled out Phoebe Snow, and smoothly moved the stylus to “Poetry Man.”  I’d hoped to restore some level of peace between us.

 

Jane got up, putting her ice cream bowl on the table, and began to dance alone.  Stiffly at first, then she closed her eyes and the music took her to another place.  The music seemed to soothe her and the tension drifted out of her the same way the music drifted in.  I sat on the couch, gazing at the free-flowing motion of her body, admiring its symbiotic connection with the music.  I got up and pulled her into my arms.  She was startled at first, opening her eyes just long enough to realize it was still safe, and then laid her head on my shoulder.  I knew I was right, she did deserve better.

 

For the next hour or so, I played song after song, nearly running out of slow songs.   She looked so tired, so utterly spent, I said, “Why don’t you try and get some sleep.  I’ll rustle up an ice pack for your cheek, just in case, and stand sentry for you out here on the couch.”

 

As she walked to the freezer to pull out some ice cubes and wrapped them in a dishrag, she started shaking her head, “No, no, no.  I can’t let you do that.  You can go. I’m sure it will be okay.”  She looked as though she were about to cry again.  I hated it when a woman cried. 

 

I wasn’t sure it would be okay, so I took the dishrag gently from her hands, and put it to her face.  “Okay, I’ll just stay until 3 – just to make sure.  You can go to bed, I’ll just close the door when I leave.” I paused to make sure the door would lock behind me. “I’ll just sit here on the couch and read,” I said as I picked up an old copy of Mother Jones off the 3-legged coffee table propped up on the fourth side with a stack of Tupperware and moved toward the couch.

 

I felt her looking at me as I opened the magazine.  She’d decided.

 

“I don’t want you to leave, I want you to stay.  But not here.  Come with me.”

 

The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later
To-night;
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.

Chapter 5

 

Jane slipped into the bathroom and into her nightgown.  I shifted from foot to foot, inside the door of the bedroom, waiting.  She came out and slid under the covers.  I followed suit and slipped into the bathroom, using my finger as a toothbrush, washed my face, and exited, closing the door behind me.

 

I sneaked out to the living room and put on Little River Band’s, Sleeper Catcher album.

 

“Um, I don’t have any PJs,” I grinned.

 

 

Turned on her side, I snuggled up close to her, wrapped my arm safely around her and as I drifted to sleep, heard Lady begin to play.

 

 

The sun peeked through the shabby curtains, making little dots and dashes of shadow across the wall over the dresser in front of the bed.  I closed my eyes again, hoping the dream I’d had the night before wouldn’t disappear.  I heard a soft sigh next to me, and a hand reached out under the covers to caress my back.  Her fingers were soft and her touch light and eventually questioning.  I turned over to look at her, her eyes still closed, a slight smile on her face.  She looked angelic.

 

I pulled her closer to me and wrapped my arms around her.  I dipped my face into her neck and breathed her in.  As I pulled my face back, her lips reached for mine and we kissed.  

 

 

My hunger for her grew each time we made love.  Eventually, I had to eat.  She made me toast.  The bread was more than day-old.  I ate it as though it was the nectar of the gods.

 

The phone rang about noon. She leaped out with a vigor I didn’t know she had in her and raced across the floor to the kitchenette where an old black wall phone with a 20-foot cord resided.   I waited in bed, trying desperately to push the crumbs from the toast off the side before she noticed.  I could barely hear her end of the conversation.

 

“Oh, really?  So that’s why she didn’t turn up like a bad penny.  Thanks for telling me.”  I heard the phone hang up and she scurried back into the bedroom.

 

“Deidre got arrested last night for driving drunk.  She’s still in the drunk tank.  No one would bail her out.”  I looked at her quizzically, so she added, “The woman you were protecting me from.”

 

“That reminds me, Beautiful, you haven’t told me your name.”

 

She laughed heartily and said, “I’m Jane, and to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

 

“Lori.”  I patted my hand on her side of the bed, and she returned to me.

 

 

Somewhere between noon and night, I grew so hungry, I had to insist we leave for real sustenance.  I jumped in the shower, borrowed another t-shirt, and we headed out into the world.  I suggested that we take our food to Peters Park.  She agreed.  We grabbed fish and chips at a local and walked to the park.  Finding an empty bench in the shade, we sat down and ate.

 

“So, I’m a soldier at Devens.  I’m going to a school right now to train me for the European Theatre.  I’m an intelligence analyst.”  I said between bites.

 

Her eyes grew wide.  “What, you’re a spy?  You look awfully young to be a spy.”   She squinted at me doubtfully.

 

“Nah, I do paperwork mostly.  Look at communications and figure stuff out from it.  It’s just office work.”  I continued, “I’m heading to Germany in a couple of weeks for my first overseas tour.

 

She looked as though she were thinking hard about something.  “Really?  So I might not run into you again?”

 

“That’s a possibility.  But, I’m here now.”  She looked around the park for any observers, and squeezed my hand and kissed my cheek.  “You are the sweet one Lori.  Where are you from?”

 

I told her about growing up in Iowa and wanting to get away as quickly as humanly possible.  About my adventures in basic training, at Goodfellow Air Force Base, and now, at Devens.

 

She got me talking, all right.  About my family, my friends back home, and my many, many hopes and dreams.  I got quite animated as I described all the things in the world I wanted to see and all the things I wanted to be after I was done.  When I got done talking, I figured I’d talked for more in one stretch than I had cumulatively in the last three months.

 

“What about you, Jane, where are you from?  I’m guessing not too far from here?”  Her accent, while not obnoxiously Boston, definitely had a Boston flavor.  It seemed, though, to be kind of refined somehow.  Not that I knew from refined back then.

 

“I’m from here in town.  My family asked me to leave my home in my third year of college.  I’d been caught in a parked car at the end of the drive with my girlfriend.  They couldn’t countenance it, they said.  Nor would they pay for my college in the future.   I left that night.”  She looked up at the sky, as if somehow the puffy white cloud whisking past us would help her recall the details, “My girlfriend let me stay with her, but that lasted only about a month. I got a job waiting tables and was saving money to get back into school.   I’d met Deidre in The Saints one night and she totally swept me of my proverbial feet.   She wanted a wife, so she begged me to quit my job.  I did.  I was crazy for her.”

 

I let her keep going, “It was subtle at first.  I’d been trying to reestablish some kind of contact with my parents, but she convinced me that they would never accept me, no longer loved me, and she was the only one I could count on.  When I’d sent a couple of letters to my parents that were never answered, I believed Deidre was right.  Then it was my friends.  They were ‘losers’ or ‘posers’ and I deserved better.  Over the years the cheese ended up standing alone—except for the rat that had me cornered.”

 

She looked around again and when the coast was clear, put her head on my shoulder and gripped my hand tightly.  “When I found the unmailed letters to my parents in her glove box, folded up inside her owner’s manual, I flipped out—silently.  Because by then, I was walking on eggshells trying to keep her happy.  If I didn’t it might be a slap or a shove into the wall as she’d tell me I was worthless and no one else would want me so I better straighten up.”

 

I stiffened visibly when she described her treatment.  The empathy for her turned into rage against this woman I could have clobbered with the help of the Musketeers and probably should have.  She squeezed my shoulder and tipped her head down and turned it up in front of me so she could see my eyes.  She mouthed, “It’s okay.”  Then, she squeezed my arm.

 

“Once I saw the letters, I plotted my escape.  I left her house with nothing but a suitcase and went out and got a job waiting tables again.  I pulled doubles six days a week.  It would have been seven, but they were closed on Sunday.  I slept on the couches of acquaintances I’d met when we’d go to the bar.  Then, I got this place.  Everyone donated an item or two so I’d have some furniture.  Everyone tried to keep it a secret from Deidre where I could be found, but someone let the cat out of the bag.”  She sighed heavily.  “I don’t need to go into those details, but it was hell for a while.  I thought she was finally moving on until the other night. I’ve had to drop some shifts at work, because business isn’t doing so well.  I was using this weekend as kind of a last hurrah.  Monday I start job hunting for something with more hours, and maybe more money.  It’s that or eviction, rent is late.”

 

I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and said, “Let’s stop at that little grocery and I’ll cook us up some eggs.”  It’s all I knew how to make.  But, I made them well.”  We walked.  I bought food.  I dropped a dime and left a message at the motel.  I wouldn’t be coming back to the motel tonight.

 

 

 

Earlier, we were new.  Tonight, we had familiarity.  We knew what gave rise to pleasure and practiced intently perfecting our newfound knowledge.  There was laughter and tenderness and urgency and need.  I held her fiercely when we finally lay exhausted, just before the dawn.  I wondered if there was any way out of going to Germany, but being a rules-follower, I knew that it was not going to be.  Whatever we had was quickly coming to a close, I rued it as well as I knew it.

 

Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.

 

Chapter 6

 

A couple of hours later, I got up, showered and made more eggs.  I brought her in a plate and a glass of milk.  I gathered up my things and carefully folded her t-shirt in a drill sergeant-approved way before putting it on the end of the bed.   Somehow, I felt I knew her better in 36 hours than many get a chance to know someone in a lifetime.

 

As I stood up from dropping the shirt, I looked her in the eye and blurted out, “I just wanted to tell you something.  I believe in you.  And, I know there are other people who do too, even though you might not believe it.  Let them believe in you.  Let them.  Now, I’m jumping off my soapbox.” 

 

She just looked at me.  Then she got all sad.  I thought she was going to cry, then she wasn’t.  Just as she had looked Friday night when she decided I was to share her bed, she had clearly made another important decision.  I just didn’t know what it was yet.

 

“Hey, next weekend I have CQ – Charge of Quarters – that’s basically guard duty for the barracks. But, I have one more weekend before I go.  I can try to get back.”  I looked at her hopefully.

 

She looked as though she was biting her tongue when she spoke, “Lori.  Maybe it’s best we not see each other again, I mean, what will happen?  I’ll want to see you again and then have to watch you go off to ‘war’?” 

 

“Maybe you’re right, but maybe you’re wrong.  Why don’t you let me try?”  I didn’t want to beg, and I didn’t want to leave her.

 

Her voice suddenly lost its warmth.  She became almost angry.  “No, I think it’s better this way.  You have hopes and dreams and adventures you want to have.  Go start them.  Stop thinking about me.  We had a good time.  You’re a charming little warrior, but let’s call it a day.”  I was taken aback by her harsh tone.  But, I wasn’t going to fight back.

 

I didn’t believe she meant it.  “Okay, Jane, I hear you.  Do you have a pen?”  She got up and went to the kitchen counter and brought me the pen.  “I’m writing down my APO address in Germany and here’s my phone number on the barracks floor while I’m here.  Call me.  Write to me – let me know how you are.  I’m sure not going to forget about you.  I can’t.”  Somehow, I believed it would be all right.

 

I got up, pulled her into my arms one last time and kissed her with everything I had.  For a moment, she kissed me back, then she stopped and pulled away.  I released her and turned to go.  “Take care, Jane, take good care of yourself.”

 

I put the paper with my information on the table next to the pen, dug in my pocket and put a dime on top of the paper, so she could call me.

 

She never called. She never wrote. And, because it hurt so much not to, I did forget her.

 

Chapter 7

 

I had to stop reading.  There was just a bit more, but I began crying.  Really crying – in a way I hadn’t through funerals, through crisis, and even the day I found myself with nothing but a beer and a box of crackers to eat in my house and 10 days to payday.  I was crying for my lost youth, for a lost love, and for all the things I thought I’d do and be but didn’t and wasn’t.  I cried for every uphill battle.  I cried for my cynicism and for the emotional armor I’d built up over nearly 30 years of hurt.   I cried for my disillusionment and my disappointment.  I cried for innocence lost and the fact that somewhere along the way, seemingly gone forever, was that youthful certainty that everything would always be all right.  

 

Eventually, my cries gave way to sobs, and I attempted to read the remainder of her letter through my tears. 

 

 

 

Like Kreskin, Barry seemed to know it was time to end his disappearing act.  He sat down silently in his red leather chair and waited.  I saw that there were only a few more sentences.

 

 

I looked up at Barry as the tears rolled down my face.  He opened his book once more and pulled out an envelope and handed it to me.  It was yellow with age and the postmark read, September 17, 1979 – it was addressed to an APO box in Germany.  Mine.  It was stamped “Return to sender, No such recipient.”  I thought a moment.  Then, I realized she’d mailed it before I arrived at my new unit.  They didn’t hold it in General Delivery like they should have.

 

I opened it and all it said was:

 

“Please come to Boston for the springtime. ~ Love, Jane”

 

Ah.  All was explained.  She’d provided me with all I needed to know.  I forgot her for no reason but an errant stamp on an envelope.  But, it was what it was and we each had to fulfill our own destinies.  There was no turning back time now.

 

Barry helped me as I struggled to stand up and begged me to stay for lunch.  I couldn’t, I had a plane to catch and a life to return to. 

 

“Barry,” I asked, “Was she as wonderful as I remember?”

 

“And then some.”  He smiled in fond memory.  He clasped his hand on my shoulder and helped me to the door.  Jean shouted out a farewell, and Barry added, “Come back to see us, Lori, I feel as though I’ve known you forever.”  He smiled, gave me a warm hug, a kiss on the cheek and walked me to the elevator.

 

 

 An eternity later, I was walking into my house, hearing the bickering of my kids, the barking of my dogs, and looked at the pile of mail on my desk and the 300 emails in my inbox.  I took everyone out for dinner – no cooking for me.  I didn’t have it in me, but when did I ever?  I was so glad to be home.

 

I lay in bed that night, my iPod playing Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, thinking about destiny and fate and all the parts that were in play in two people’s lives to connect them for a specific reason.  That lasted about 12 seconds then, I was out.

 

That night, my lazy dream lover returned, and, of course, it was Jane.  It had been Jane all along.  I reveled in the knowledge I still held deep inside of me of her every line.  She danced her flowing dance for me, we made sweet passionate love in the grass as the puffy white clouds rolled by, and then, she left me.  For good this time, I knew.  She’d finally given me the message she’d been trying to give me for years.  And, though it wasn’t easy to hear, I heard it. 

 

Tomorrow, for the first time in longer than I cared to admit, I knew with certainty I would wake up and everything would be all right.

 

 

To Jane

 

By Percy Bysshe Shelly

 

The keen stars were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane.
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them
Again.

 

As the moon’s soft splendour
O’er the faint cold starlight of Heaven
Is thrown,
So your voice most tender
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.

 

The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later
To-night;
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.

 

Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.