A Rendezvous to Remember: A Memoir of Joy and Heartache at the Dawn of the Sixties

by Terry Marshall

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, you can’t give her weeds in a coffee can,” Mom snorted. She offered her china vase, rearranged it all, and scolded me again for not ordering roses.

  Sunday, I was up at dawn. I showered, helped Mom fix breakfast, did the dishes, changed my sheets, and tidied my room. It was 7:30, still two and a half hours until Annie would get to Alamosa. I dusted off the Falcon, outside and in, checked the tires, trimmed my mustache, and brushed my teeth: 8:15. I took a hard look at my bouquet, combed the southwest forty, and found replacements for the potato flowers, then showered and brushed my teeth again: 8:45.

  “I better go,” I told Mom at 8:50. “That plane comes in early sometimes.”

  “Yeah, you’d better,” she said. “It takes almost half an hour to get to the airport.”

  I drove County Line Road at thirty miles an hour to keep from kicking up dust and still got to Alamosa twenty minutes early. The airport was small—one runway, one plane at a time, no coffee or gift shop, a waiting room the size of a doctor’s office. I wandered out back, searched the sky, and went inside a couple of times to pee—waiting always set my bladder on overdrive.

  I spotted the DC-3 circling in from the Sangre de Cristos before the ticket agent did. It zoomed past on the runway, slowed, and crawled back. Greeting this two-engine plane wasn’t new to me—I’d been first on the tarmac before, snapping photos of dignitaries as they stepped out onto the stairs.

  This time, I had imagined a grand cinema reunion: We sprint across the tarmac toward each other. She flings herself into my arms. Her legs lock us into a licentious embrace. Our kisses go on forever.

  Instead, I stood there like a doofus, Mom’s vase with my ragtag bouquet clutched in my left hand as my right hand snaked out for a handshake. “Damn,” I said. “It’s good to see you.”

  She shook my hand. “Good day, sir.”

  That was Annie, always quick with a smart-aleck retort.

  “And what’s this? A bouquet!” She picked through it. “Let’s see. Some weeds. Beer barley. Cattle feed. Potato flowers. Oh, Ter, it’s lovely! And so romantic.”

  I never knew when she was spinning an extended joke. “Really? You like it?”

  “Natch! What better welcome than symbols of farm life in the San Luis Valley?” She laid her hands on my shoulders. “Thank you for waiting, Ter. For not leaving for the Peace Corps. I was afraid you’d be gone. You’re not angry with me, are you?”

  “We have to go together.” I forced back tears. “Damn, what a long summer!”

  “I know,” she said. “Tell me about it.”

  At home on the farm, we began like skiers inching up a mountain slope, anchoring each step so we wouldn’t slide backward. We chatted under the cottonwoods at Coffman’s pond, hiked the fields, and cuddled atop the neatly stacked alfalfa bales in the southeast forty. We followed the railroad tracks to the old cattle chutes beyond Marshall Produce, and by midafternoon, our words were tumbling out like boulders in the spring runoff. Sometimes speech became impossible because the thousands of saved thoughts logjammed in our brains.

  Then we’d kiss. And hug. And off we’d go again—to Paris, Silverton, San Francisco, the Bavarian hills, London Bridge, a lake near Juliet’s house in Verona. And, oh yes indeed, she’d marveled at the Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory of Samothrace in the Louvre, as well as the Dürer masterpieces in Munich.

  She was the Annie of late May, but with ten thousand new freckles. She had been in the sun. The freckles enhanced her charm—she’d never been an alabaster-skinned Botticelli fit only for a pedestal. She pulsed energy and wielded her wit with épée-like precision. Best of all, she was as responsive to my every touch as she had been in June.

  Nevertheless, beyond every joyous affirmation, shadows of disquiet hovered. Each time they swooped in, we artfully dodged. We didn’t acknowledge that marriage proposal of mine—or her non-answer. Nor did either of us dare mention his name, that summer companion of hers.

  By eleven that night, the house was quiet, the family asleep. Annie and I were wired still, but her eyes started to droop, yawns coming midsentence. My thoughts drifted to one pre-finals night in Boulder, us dining in a real restaurant, not McDonald’s. Her words had gone to mush, and she dozed off at the table. That was Annie, full-out until she hit empty.

  “We’d better turn in,” I said. “You’re about to crash.”

  Her eyes popped open. “No, I’m not. The night’s young.” She flashed a phony smile.

  “Yeah, and I’m in Caracas too. Come on.” I helped her to her feet.

  She readied herself in the bathroom. We had only one, at the end of the hall beyond Mom’s and Pam’s bedrooms. Annie tiptoed out and whispered, “Tuck me in?”

  Wow, she’d put on that clingy nightie, the one I’d photographed her in last May. “Why, of course,” I said, as if settling a girl into my bed was part of my nightly routine.

  I shadowed her up the attic stairs to my bedroom and, with a flourish, drew down the clean sheet. “Your bedchamber, miss. Silk sheets. Down-filled pillow.”

  “No rose petals? No lute?” she said. “But I’ve got you. That’s all I need.” She eased into bed and patted the edge. “Don’t rush off. I haven’t seen you in years.”

  The moon was nearing full, and the glow streaming through the window was bright enough to read by. Her silky nightie gathered in the light as if to showcase rather than conceal the wearer. I seated myself gingerly beside her, my thigh touching her leg. She didn’t scoot away. “I love you,” I said. “I even put it in writing.”

  “Yes, I read that—more than once. Wrote it myself too, if I recall.”

  “You did—though not nearly often enough.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m a terrible correspondent, but I was on the go, and—”

  “Doesn’t matter now. You’re here. I’m here. That’s all I’ve asked for.”

  “That’s all? You sure?”

  “Well, a few other small things—a kiss or two. And a lifetime.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Oh really? Some of those letters suggested a whole lot more. In quite vivid detail.”

  Damn, I shouldn’t have been so explicit. But she wasn’t pushing me away—she was playful Annie again, teasing. “Yeah, it shocked me too. I meant it, though.”

  “Tell you what, let’s start slowly and see what develops.” She held out her arms.

  I yearned to dive in with her, but my bedroom shared a wall with the boys’ room. No insulation. Open doors. And both boys had ears sharp enough to hear a mosquito tiptoe across the ceiling. Besides, we had too much ground to make up and that looming question to answer. None of that mattered—she was asleep before I could have made it to first base. “Sleep well,” I breathed. I disentangled myself and snuck downstairs to a dreadful night on the sofa.

  Monday, 17 August 1964, en route to Albuquerque. Not five minutes from home, speeding down a backcountry gravel road, Annie unbuckled her seat belt and moved over beside me on the car’s bench seat. “At last, you and me. Alone.” She squeezed my knee.

  I flinched, tightening both hands on the steering wheel.

  She flashed an impish grin. “Relax, Ter, it’s a long drive.”

  Yeah, sure. Relax. I eased my hand onto her knee, inched my way up her thigh. She leaned closer. “I want to say yes, I do, Ter. But I get scared, like I’m on the high dive and I jump before I’m ready and, oh no, they’ve drained the pool. In Germany, alone, hitchhiking and on the train, I couldn’t speak German, but I told myself, You can do this, Ann. You can travel by yourself. And I did! At the same time, I kept thinking that it would have been so much better with you. It’s like that now. I need to be on my own—in my own apartment, not a dorm—challenging myself, making my own decisions. I never have. But I want to be with you too and share every moment with you. I do love you.”

  I squeezed her thigh. No words needed and none possible.

  “I feel terrible about the Peace Corps. Please don’t hate me for it. Maybe
you could still go, maybe it’s not too late. You should call them.”

  “Do you want me to? Without you? For two years?”

  “No, absolutely not. But what if you’ve torpedoed your last chance?”

  “I’m still committed, but I want to go with you. Together.”

  She went silent. Then she laid her hand over mine, pressed it into her inner thigh, more affirming than a breathless kiss. “I’ve thought a lot about that too. I want to.”

  It was a long drive to Albuquerque, six hours. For most people it took four. We stopped in Española where the highway crossed the Rio Grande, stretched our legs, and skipped a few rocks across the river as we had done in Silverton in May. In Santa Fe, we lunched on green chili burritos, a leisurely Sunday-night-in-Boulder kind of lunch, as much chatter as meal.

  As we neared Albuquerque, she pointed ahead to a pull-off on the side of the road. “Let’s stop for a minute. Over there in that grove of trees.”

  I finessed the potholes and rutted trail and parked out of sight of the highway. “Well?”

  “No emergency. I wanted a few more minutes alone with you is all, no distractions. Mom will be the sentry on duty, and Dad may lock you in the garage tonight.”

  “Tell them I’m wearing a chastity belt. Stainless steel and welded shut.”

  “Whew, I was hoping. You’re dangerous. But seriously, once you get to know Dad, you’ll like him. He’ll like you too.”

  “I bet. Like a lion likes Christians.”

  “Tell you what. Let’s forget Mom and Dad for a moment. I was so tired last night, I know I disappointed you. Your bedroom was so romantic too, with you beside me in the moonlight. Hold me—like you did at the haystack yesterday afternoon.”

  Snuggled together, we gazed out at the Rio Grande—in mid-August, more a shallow creek than one of the nation’s grand rivers—like us, unhurriedly wending its way from the San Luis Valley to Albuquerque. We sat silently. Back in May I would have been pawing at her like a satyr, but this touch seemed a meshing of souls, not lust at all.

  She sighed. “We’d better go. My folks are waiting. They’ll worry.”

  “How about a parting kiss?”

  “Of course,” she said, and I planted a hearty Bronx cheer behind her ear.

  She screeched. “What a relief! The same ole Ter after all.”

  Monday, 17 August 1964, Albuquerque. The Colonel and Mrs. Garretson were hovering curbside when I rolled to a stop. Annie’s mother whipped the car door open and greeted Annie like she’d been freed from Stalag 17.

  The Colonel didn’t look like a colonel at all: no uniform, no snappy salute, no brisk orders. He wore slacks and a polo shirt and greeted us with the smile of a fun-loving uncle. “Mighty good to see you two. Come in, come in.” His handshake wasn’t bone crushing, nor was he posturing like a tough guy opponent before a wrestling match. Rather, friendly and welcoming.

  They ushered us in—Annie to her old bedroom, me to a spare single bed in her little brother’s room—then summoned us to the den. Annie’s mom poured sherry from a crystal decanter. The Colonel hoisted his glass. “To the safe arrival of our wandering girl. And her escort.” We clinked glasses, and Annie’s mom launched into a “Flight of the Bumblebee” string of questions: Bonner and Germany and some old friends in Verona and “Oh, did you make it to St. Mark’s Square, it’s one of my favorite places, and—”

  Annie held up her hand. “Come on, Mom, we’ve got more than five minutes. Let’s take one at a time.”

  The Colonel smiled. “Right, Sis. Let ’er catch her breath, Dorothy.” He turned toward me. “Here, Terry, try this.” He offered chips and a bowl of salsa.

  “Oh, Ralph, don’t—”

  The Colonel flicked his hand, and she stopped midsentence.

  The Test! Annie had warned me. Her dad served a Hades-hot mix of minced jalapeños to every guy she’d ever brought to the house. Every one of them had either cried out in pain or half choked.

  I took a chip, scooped up a mighty bite, and popped it into my mouth. The den went silent. I love hot salsa. But, oh shit, a dragon had blasted fire down my throat. I blinked back tears and, as calmly as I could, chomped the chip to death and swallowed a four-alarm fire. I looked the Colonel in the eye and forced a smile. “Mmm, delicious.” Then I took a second chip, ladled up as much salsa as it could hold, and dispatched it as if it were a sugar cookie.

  All three of them stared at me. The Colonel’s eyes twinkled. Her mom shook her head. Annie smiled sympathetically.

  Over dinner, Annie’s mom shifted into an attentive, delightful hostess. She could have passed for Annie’s striking older sister. Petite, two inches shorter than Annie, slim, graceful, charming, and a skilled raconteur. Each time conversation lagged, she rekindled it with a witty comment or a well-chosen question. She and the Colonel adroitly worked me into the discussion, asking about Silverton and CU, as if I were a long-lost nephew, all while refilling our wine glasses and urging me to take seconds. She even commented on my stints at the Valley Courier: “Didn’t you write that wonderful story on the Manassa Pioneer Days?” she asked. “You caught the very essence of cowboy-country life!”

  I’d written that feature four summers ago. “You remember that?”

  “I saved it,” she said. “You write beautifully.”

  Mrs. Garretson insisted that Annie relate every detail of her brother’s life and duties in Germany and then effortlessly interlaced those reports with parallel tales of the Garretson travels when the Colonel was stationed in Italy. No one mentioned that Annie had traveled Europe with Jack the Stud or that he was the reason she’d gone there in the first place.

  At evening’s end, Annie and I had a quiet moment after her parents went to bed—time for a delicious kiss wrapped in a loving embrace in her dad’s hideaway office off the den. “They like you,” she said. “Dad’s impressed.”

  “I did my best. But oh, I’ll need reconstructive surgery on my seared tongue.”

  Ann

  Monday night, August 17, 1964, Albuquerque. The streetlight illuminated a swath of the aqua wall in my bedroom, along with the flowery bedspread, the vanity mirror, and the matching miniatures of laughing square dancers, all decor that Mom and I had worked with juicy delight to assemble for my very own room—when I was in sixth grade. My family had moved five times since then, and Mom had recreated that original look after every move.

  This familiar place had always enfolded me in comfort. But I wasn’t a little girl anymore. The past two days had been a replay of my summer, teetering from one precipice to the next, only this time trying to shield Terry from mention of Jack. Worse, I had declared my love for Terry as avidly as I had for Jack. I struggled with my behavior these past months, hurling painful words at myself: Tramp. Jezebel. Minx.

  I never intended to fall in love with two men, to subject them both to deception and heartache. I had been looking forward to the isolation in Arizona so I could sort out my feelings—by myself. All I’d gotten so far was a change in scenery. Plus, I had regressed from independent world traveler to prodigal child returned home.

  On the positive side, Mom and Dad had bent over backward to welcome Terry. And Terry had passed Dad’s jalapeño test—my only boyfriend ever to succeed. The trouble was, I had never told them he was my boyfriend. Nor that Jack was also my boyfriend.

  Years earlier, Mom and Dad had exhibited too much eagerness to know all the details about boys I dated and too much interest in steering my preferences, which rarely matched theirs. My reaction? I built a vault around my love life. They had more or less backed off, but every time they did drop a comment about a boyfriend, I changed the combination lock on that vault. Now here I was, facing my most momentous decision ever, and I hadn’t told them either man was a potential life partner.

  But they must have constructed their own theories about both guys. They knew I’d traveled Europe with Jack and had visited both Jack and Terry on my way home. They treated Terry as if he were still my buddy while
artfully steering the conversation around any mention of Jack. I was grateful for that. But very likely, neither man qualified, in their estimation, to be married to the precious child who used to occupy this girly room.

  I didn’t want them dabbling in my decision. What did I want from them? I didn’t know.

  Terry

  Monday night, 17 August 1964, Albuquerque. I couldn’t sleep, not with Annie in the next room glowing in the moonlight. I lay there three feet from fifteen-year-old Jimmy, him on night watch, pretending to be zonked out.

  Annie and I had spent a day and a half together since she stepped off the plane. We’d talked for hours. The signs were positive. She hadn’t mentioned Sarah and Rachael, my bombastic editorials and the scurrilous letter to Atkins, my left-wing politics, or the fact she was army and I was a conscientious objector.

  A few shadows darkened my spirits: her comment that she had never lived alone, her realization that traveling solo had given her a desire to make it on her own, and her chilling declaration that she was “not quite ready for marriage.” But I couldn’t help dismissing those as footnotes, not key themes. Her passion—the lingering kisses, embraces, touches—far outweighed her doubts. We had picked up where we left off in June, constrained only by the fact that we’d been cloistered in our parents’ homes. Had we been in my apartment in Boulder . . . oh, that thought nearly set me off.

  Despite my best efforts to remain hopeful, a menacing chimera lurked under my bed in Jimmy’s room—that lieutenant she had left behind.

  On the way to Albuquerque, I had dared ask Annie if he had proposed. Her eyes narrowed. Whiffs of smoke curled up and singed the roof of my car. “No, he didn’t,” she said at last, her words icy. “But, yes, we had some great times together.”