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

by Terry Marshall

  For an hour, we had driven in silence. I didn’t bring that up again or the question I didn’t dare ask: Did you have sex with him? I’d read in Playboy Letters that after having sex for the first time, girls glowed and acted differently—a spring in their step, a change in how they comported themselves. Mostly, I thought that was bunk, but still, I couldn’t help studying her as intently as an artist with a model, trying to grasp every nuance of her body language, words, tone, what she didn’t say or do. She did have a tan, that’s all I could see. Best of all, she was as loving as if we had fallen asleep for these ten weeks, awakened side by side, and set off hand in hand on some grand new adventure.

  For a week, I had worried I had blown it by turning down the Peace Corps, that she’d come back, reject me, and all I’d have would be shattered dreams. Now, there I was, ready to take off in the morning for Phoenix to find a job so we could be together.

  She hadn’t said yes, but more importantly, she hadn’t said no.

  18

  Great Expectations

  Ann

  Tuesday, August 18, 1964, Albuquerque. Over breakfast of poached eggs, toast, and cantaloupe, Mom chatted with Terry. Wasn’t he due to leave for South America for missionary work?

  I held my breath.

  “Venezuela,” he said. “With the Peace Corps. It’s a government program to help underdeveloped countries. But I’ve changed my plans. I hope to go next year.”

  “Really?” Mom said. “What will you do in the meantime?”

  “See if I can get on at a newspaper . . . somewhere in the Phoenix area.”

  The cogs of conversation ground to a halt. Mom and Dad exchanged looks. Mom frowned. “Oh, maybe you’ll wind up close to Annie. She’s going to Glendale.”

  “I sure hope so,” Terry said, poker-faced. “I miss our Sunday nights at McDonald’s.”

  No one choked. Dad quickly finished and excused himself. Mom jumped up to tidy the kitchen.

  An hour later, as I bid Terry goodbye at the curb, he said, “Well, that was awkward. So when are you going to tell them I have designs on becoming your roommate?”

  “Well, not then. Mom’s sure going to stew over that!”

  “She’ll get over it.” He snaked his hand around my waist and pulled me toward him. “Wish me luck on my job search.” He leaned in for a kiss.

  I reared back. “Not in front of the neighbors. And Mom!”

  “Come on, Annie. No one’s looking. No one cares!” He jerked away. “Fine! See you in Glendale.” He yanked the car door open, flopped in, slammed the door, and sped off.

  Dang! Why did he always push the limits and then shut down if he didn’t get his way?

  Questions about Terry hovered in the air until noon when Mom and I had lunch while Dad was at a meeting. “Kind of a big surprise, Terry moving to Phoenix and all,” she said.

  Everything I had practiced deserted my brain. “He’s more than a good buddy, and—”

  “Oh, Annie, he could really complicate things for you!”

  “My life is already pretty complicated, Mom. In fact—”

  “Don’t let him box you in, not before you—”

  “Don’t let him move to Arizona? Call the highway patrol to stop him at the border?”

  “A girl needs to . . . you could put a stop to it. Tell him—”

  “Tell him what? That I don’t care for him? Can’t do that, Mom. It wouldn’t be true.”

  “But Terry? Is he right for you? In all the important ways: morals, religion, background?”

  Bam. There it was—thumbs-down on Terry. That I could respond so calmly surprised me. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, Mom, something I have to figure out.”

  “We just want the best for you, sweetie, that’s all. But please, above all else, you can’t be allowing him to smooch with you. Certainly not in public!”

  Wednesday morning, August 19, 1964, Albuquerque. At last, a day to myself. No Terry. No Jack. I stretched, turned over, and was about to drift back to sleep when my bedroom door creaked open. A shaft of light punctured the semidarkness.

  “Annie? Time to go shopping.” Mom’s voice, as joyous as a meadowlark.

  Jeez, 6:20. I pulled the sheet over my head.

  “Up and at ’em, sleepyhead,” Mom said in a stage whisper. “Dillard’s has an early-bird sale on fall clothes. The bargains go fast.”

  After a bowl of All-Bran, a piece of toast, and a three-minute shower, I dashed off with Mom to her favorite mall. At 6:55, she was chattering away, me dragging behind. I hated shopping. She embraced it as a fundamental component of healthy living, like her daily walk.

  At Dillard’s, a hat display waylaid her. I hadn’t worn those things since my high school churchgoing days. “Do you like pink or beige?” She plopped the rosy one on my head. “A woman is never out of style with pink.”

  Oh, such a brim. Perfect—if I had a horse in the Kentucky Derby. Surprisingly, the hat looked fetching on that girl in the mirror. But still. “How about a pillbox?”

  “A good brim minimizes the freckles. Scarlett O’Hara would snatch this one up.”

  “Okay, a brim”—damn my freckles and Scarlett—“but beige. It’ll go with more things.”

  Mom led me into a jungle of dress racks, her practiced eye spotting possibles, deft hands plucking out potentials. “See. Great prices.” Eyes sparkling, she draped seven over my arm. “Try these—I’ll keep looking.” The hatbox banged my knees all the way to the fitting room.

  As the first dress settled over my shoulders, Mom slipped in, looked me over, and shook her head. “Try this sheath. Basic black. You can dress it up or down. And only twenty dollars, down from forty.”

  I yanked off dress number one, speed tested the rest, and found two that worked, just as she rushed in with another load, laid them out, and dashed out again.

  She pressed on, her delight at our savings outracing my horror at the soaring cost. “Now shoes. Teachers need dressy heels and comfortable flats.” By the time we agreed on two pairs of “perfect” heels, we had turned the shoe department into the Gettysburg battleground of footwear.

  Next came gloves. Purse. Girdles. Bras. Stockings. Apparently, she had inspected my entire college wardrobe and couldn’t find a thing that wouldn’t embarrass me as a teacher.

  In Dad’s career, Mom had been an essential partner as he rose to post commander. The brass called her whenever they had an impression to make—like when Bess Truman barnstormed into Livorno. How did she manage to get the former president’s wife to carry on like a personal friend? “Simple,” Mom told me once. “We talked about our daughters.”

  Still, I chafed at being her Barbie, at being dressed to fulfill her aspirations. On the other hand, she was an eager, helpful valet, a trusty escort in unfamiliar territory. By the end of an exhausting day hoofing through two malls, Mom outfitted me with a wardrobe of suits, dresses, blouses, and skirts that guaranteed I’d be a fashion plate at Glendale High.

  The next day, I shoehorned remnants of my college years into the closet, under the bed, and into the garage.

  Terry

  Wednesday, 19 August 1964, Glendale, Arizona. I eased into a parking space near my first prospect, the Glendale News, readied my résumé and portfolio of published articles, and swung the car door open. Whoosh! A blast furnace singed my eyes and lungs. Time and temperature on the bank marquee: 3:14 p.m., 106 degrees. Jesus, what was I doing there? In August!

  In Colorado’s San Luis Valley, we melted if it hit ninety. In Silverton we baked at eighty. I stifled an impulse to throw my panting Falcon into reverse and head for the mountains.

  Forty-five minutes later, I had a job: reporter for the News, $4,500 a year, with grand prospects ahead. A country town for decades, Glendale was booming. Population now twenty-eight thousand, a new shopping center, a college campus under construction, and classrooms being added overnight to the public schools. My new boss would complete the paperwork to buy out the competing Glendale Herald
by November 1. We’d become the Glendale News-Herald, expanding from weekly to biweekly and then to a daily within a year.

  I’d work five days a week, covering city hall, police, courts, local politics, school board—all the major hard-news beats. The paper was delivered Thursday mornings. On either Thursday or Friday, I could pursue in-depth, investigative stories of my own choosing.

  By nightfall, I’d found a house—not an apartment or basement cell, but a house—a charming one-room bungalow, at $60.10 a month, in an elderly couple’s backyard, an easy stroll to the newspaper office on the town square. The next morning I’d head back to Center, pack, return the following week, and begin my newspaper career Monday morning, August 31.

  Annie would be coming that week. I called her.

  “A job and a house? On your first day?” she said. “I’m impressed.”

  So was I. We were on our way!

  Ann

  Friday, August 21, 1964, Albuquerque. In the midst of my countdown to Arizona, Mom insisted I visit Cindy Gomez, the daughter of a friend of hers. Cindy had recently given birth to her first child, and upon greeting me, she launched into a tale of the delivery, as if it had been a big-screen spectacular.

  “Oh, Ann, it was so exciting. I knew it was time, but Howard dawdled and dawdled, and we barely made it to the car when my water broke—oh my, like a rainspout in a cloudburst down there. The car’s a mess. By the time we got to the hospital, I had dilated six centimeters. Did you know you open up ten centimeters down there? That’s four inches!” She formed a circle with both hands and held it between her legs. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  Gretchen had gone to the hospital by herself. When Terry and I visited her, she had spoken lovingly about her baby. No gory details, just unrestrained happiness at having brought a child into the world. Watching Cindy cuddle her baby, I sensed the angst Gretchen must have felt. She hadn’t decided whether she would give it up for adoption. Having a child should be a time of joy, not emotional pain and shame.

  “Isn’t that amazing?” Cindy said.

  “Huh, what?”

  “My episiotomy.” With a grimace, she adjusted her derriere on her doughnut pillow and gestured downward. “I needed only four stitches.”

  “Stitches? For what?”

  “You know, they cut you down there. And after that, the baby squirts right out.”

  The image jolted. A masked doctor hones his scalpel, slices her tender underside, and then drops his tool of torture to catch a squirming baby! Something else Gretchen didn’t mention. I was not ready for this marriage thing. “Oh, yeah, Cindy. Yes. Really amazing.”

  “Being a mom is fantastic, though. This little tyke is such a delight.” Fiddling with her blouse, she tugged it up and snapped open her bra. An engorged nipple popped free. She maneuvered the baby to her breast. “There, there, baby, you are hungry, aren’t you? Have some mommy juice.” The baby latched on. Cindy winced, “Go easy, sweetie.” The baby went after it like a starving calf. Cindy looked up and beamed. “See what I mean?”

  Sunday, August 30, 1964, Albuquerque. Two weeks at home had taxed me more than my final month at CU. The nonstop drudgery of shopping, packing, and visiting family friends was interspersed with snippets from my parents’ favorite aphorisms. Both worried that I look like a lady—not like a ragamuffin in sweatshirt and frayed shorts:

  Dad: “Don’t parade around looking like monkeys in a gunny sack.” (Translation: Always wear a girdle. Buns—or breasts—that jiggle in public are indecent. As if anything on my five-foot-five, 110-pound frame could jiggle.)

  Me: “Don’t worry, Dad.”

  Mom: “Do you have a razor? New blades? Shaving cream?” (Translation: A proper lady never leaves the house with underarm or leg hair.)

  Me: “Thanks, Mom, I’m all set.”

  I had just one last detail to manage before I left for Arizona: buy a car. With Dad as my broker, I bought our neighbor’s 1954 Bel Air, for an affordable $65.94 a month. What a beaut—a rich cinnamon with white stripes over the rear fenders.

  My final night at home, Mom and Dad took me to dinner at the Kirtland Air Force Base Officers Club. I donned my new sheath (undergirded by my new “corset,” new bra, and new stockings), necklace, and heels—and engaged in witty conversation with their friends. After dessert, Dad rose, bowed, and offered his hand, “Sis, may I have the honor of this dance?”

  We had danced together twice: after my eighth-grade graduation in Livorno in 1956 and at Bonner’s West Point commencement in 1961. This dance was bittersweet—my father’s last embrace before his daughter’s ship sailed he knew not where. He had equipped me with the skills and confidence to flourish on my new voyage, trying to set my course just so, but too late he saw my bearing was to the left.

  I ached as I drifted from my safe harbor. At the same time, I welcomed the next adventure, while he was left with only hopes and memories.

  I knew letting go was harder for him than for me.

  Monday, August 31, 1964, Albuquerque. I left for Arizona, not alone, but with Mom beside me. “You don’t want to drive out there by yourself, honey.” She would talk to me, drive if I got tired, and help me find an apartment. “Besides, I hate to see you leave.” I couldn’t say no.

  That afternoon in Glendale, we circled through town once, and the moment we toured the Maryland Club Apartments I knew I’d found my new home. Close to Glendale High. Furnished. One bedroom. Cozy kitchen. Well kept up. A complex that pulsed with teachers and young professionals. I could lounge around the pool with colleagues on weekends, join in activities—like the luau planned for September—designed to turn these apartments into a real neighborhood. The rent, though, almost killed the deal: $119 a month.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Annie. You’re a professional now, not a student. If money’s a problem . . . with your car payments and all, Ralph and I will—”

  “No subsidy needed, Mom.” I didn’t mean to be so short, but enough was enough.

  In our time together, Mom laid out their expectations for my behavior as a teacher—in softball questions, offhand remarks, and hints seeded into our zigzag conversations. Sex lay at the core of their worries, lurking underground, verboten as a discussion topic. She warned, “Don’t do anything that would reflect badly on yourself or your upbringing.” In Mom-speak, Do not invite men into your apartment. Corollary: Do not have sex.

  In June, their worry no doubt had been Jack, in Europe. Now, it was Terry, too close for comfort, living in the same town, though she never mentioned either name. An awkward threesome dinner with him on Tuesday seemed to reinforce her fears. On Wednesday, as I drove her to the airport for her flight home, she campaigned—in her sweetest voice—against my having anything to do with him. He wasn’t right for me, she said directly, forcefully, openly.

  To my astonishment, she resumed her crusade with a letter that weekend. She wrote:

  I am not intending to lecture you—just advise. Ralph and I are in accord on this. Teachers must be perfect examples of propriety. They must shun all “appearances of evil.” Things you might have done as a student will be strictly taboo now. You can’t be having Terry in your apartment, helping you grade papers, and such. In fact, he shouldn’t be hanging around all the time—it won’t look good. A teacher can lose a job for any little act of impropriety. And, Ann, please don’t ask him to the apartment luau. It’s an opportunity for you to meet others. You will lose other opportunities if he is too much in evidence. You have plenty of reasons to keep him at a distance, in that you need to be busy with your teaching.

  With your charm, personality, beauty, wit, background, you can command the best. Stick to your high ideals, your religious beliefs—and don’t be swayed by superficial things (such as a “gift of gab” and a jolly time you can have with someone). Look deeper and see the real man. Don’t let yourself get indoctrinated by any screwball ideas someone else might have, but study both sides of a question and make your own decisions.

  Oh, yes, one more th
ing: you have been used to good things that money can buy in life. Find yourself a man who can take care of you.

  The conversation and her letter stung me to the core. I had enough trouble sorting out my feelings for the two men I loved without her inserting herself and Dad into the mix. I took her jab about “your religious beliefs” as a shot at Jack. Her machine-gun attack not to “let yourself get indoctrinated by any screwball ideas” was a direct attack on Terry. Okay, his politics were out of step with theirs. “Screwball ideas,” however, put us on two different planets, with no hope of finding common ground.

  “Find yourself a man”—the word man heavily underlined and typed over twice on her 1939 black Remington standard typewriter to make it boldface—wounded me profoundly. In Mom-speak, it reeked of a double slur—Terry wasn’t able to “take care” of me. And he wasn’t tall enough. Male height was a big deal in my family. Dad was five feet eleven, but according to Mom, my grandmother refused to believe her only son was a hair under six feet—the height of a “real man.” Terry was five feet five, same as me—not tall enough in their estimation to “measure up.”

  I didn’t tell him this. I didn’t want him to be hurt or embittered by it. Nor did I want him to know my parents were “size-ist”—in my view, as untenable as being racist and a nasty denial of Terry’s intelligence and capabilities.

  As for needing a “man to take care of me”? That was a retreat into prehistory. Women’s liberation was about fighting for equal footing with men, not dependence on them. Betty Friedan had pointed out in The Feminine Mystique that women in American society abandoned their own professional lives and goals in deference to their husbands’ careers, and that was precisely why so many housewives felt unfulfilled and dissatisfied.

  Both Mom and Grandma embraced those outdated attitudes. Before Mom married Dad, she had been working for New Mexico’s US Senator Dennis Chavez, alternating between Washington, DC, and Santa Fe, but she gave up her career to spend her life as an officer’s wife.