The next day Rudy and I explore more of the surrounding areas, and I get to know this thoughtful and kind man from Illinois who is taking a semester away from college to travel. That night we sleep next to one another, but only hold hands for a short while. He offers care and respect with no sexual overtones.
I invite Rudy to Nice in a month when my spring semester is ending, and luckily, he stays in touch, showing up as planned.
“Why don’t we take the next few days to get to know one another better,” Rudy suggests upon arrival. I’m game, and immediately notice my breath calms and deepens. Trusting him comes easily. Although he finds a place to stay, we spend the next three days together, romping around this city that has become my home over the last nine months.
The last night of Rudy’s visit, we return to my dorm arm in arm, feeling the pull of our attraction and affections with a soothing awareness that although haven’t even kissed, tonight we are ready.
Laughing and talking as we walk up the hill where I live, all of a sudden, I notice a strangely familiar figure sitting on the steps to my dorm.
“Hey, Patty!”
It’s Dave. He’s decided to fly to France and surprise me after my correspondence began lagging. Dave stands up, smiling and opening his arms.
Slowly I let go of Rudy and, despite feeling stunned, walk straight into Dave’s arms. I feel that helpless tug toward the familiar. Awkwardly, I introduce Dave to Rudy, whom I have told plenty about Dave and how my feelings for him have been changing. Rudy politely stays a short time, as if waiting to see if I’ll come to my senses, then mumbles good night and turns to leave.
Something about the entire scene feels aggressive and abusive. Am I programmed for failure, following some weird set of directions that bubble up from a confused and misguided source deep within? If only I could metaphorically fling a foot into Dave’s crotch like I did with the guy who jumped me from behind in Avignon, saving myself once again with that same force of fury that might finally send Dave sprawling out of my life.
Listening to Dave prattle on about how he planned this wonderful surprise and how he has missed me so much, I go numb. I watch Rudy slowly walk down the hill. A surge of sadness engulfs me as I watch the most respectful male I’ve yet interacted with reluctantly walk away. I stand there speechless and allow him to go.
I release the thorny branch and let myself careen down the well.
LATE FOR MY WEDDING
1974 (age 22)—Richardson, Texas
Larry stuffs a wad of hash in the pipe and hands it to me, holding the lighter while I inhale. I watch as smoke lazily wafts in the late afternoon air at this tidy suburban neighborhood park, only blocks from my parents’ house. I know my mom must be waiting in absolute panic since I’m not there getting ready for my wedding, which is in less than two hours. I called Larry, my college roommate’s boyfriend, to supposedly meet for last minute ideas on the pictures he is going to take at Dave’s and my wedding, and for this little toke. Dave and I have been talking about getting married for years. But I have doubts.
“It doesn’t feel right,” I tell Larry. “I think I’m making a huge mistake.”
Larry nods silently. We gaze at winter’s dreary sky and at some crows raucously cawing nearby.
“Would it help if you thought about what you love about Dave?” Larry is obviously trying to redirect my portentous mood.
I scowl and look intently at him. I want to explore how to get out of this dilemma, not into it. Every time I have mentioned my doubts and worries lately to friends, they think I’m kidding and either ignore me, change the subject, or bring up what a great couple Dave and I are. On the other hand, it feels thoughtful of Larry to at least try to help here in the final hour.
“Well, you know how much fun Dave is, and we frequently laugh together. We both love music and being outdoors.” I pause while thinking about the hikes we have taken together. “He has a way with words and is a great poet and writer. Everybody knows what a nice and funny guy Dave is, and loves being around him. He’s the life of a party. If he knew I was feeling this miserable, he would probably want us to hold off too. In fact, he may be feeling the way I do right now. But we’ve been together for such a long time, which has to count for something, right?”
“Yeah, you guys have been together ever since I met you, over seven years,” Larry acknowledges, a little nervously. I think he’s feeling slightly lost about my obvious ambivalence and the possibility that I might call off the whole shebang this close to the actual ceremony.
Right now, my twenty-two years of living feel pathetically insufficient for making such a big decision. Stabs of memories of Dave breaking up with me over and over, and his endless flirting with others, make me reach for another toke. Dave likes me, that much I believe, but I’m not really sure he is in love with me, or I with him.
Dave loves having sex, that’s for sure, but he has already proven that he loves that with others as well. Why are we getting married? I think it’s because we always said we would after college, and he’s finally finished—a summer and semester after I did—and we have been hiding that we are living together from our parents, and we’re tired of doing that. Is getting married the only way we can see of effectively separating from our parents? Why haven’t I talked to Dave about these doubts? How does one even cancel a wedding barely an hour away? I picture my friends already getting ready. I haven’t even washed my hair yet. Mom is probably about to shit.
“I’ll keep what I love about Dave in mind,” I say with a long sigh while opening my car door. “See you at the church.” I give Larry a weak smile and reluctantly head home, two blocks away. We never talked about the photographs.
Sure enough, Mom is waiting at the door, all dressed up and ready to go. I can tell she is infuriated but holds back and tensely announces that it is almost time to leave for the church and how incredibly worried she has been. She adds something along the lines of how bad it will look if we arrive late, and how Dad is fuming that I have not been at home getting ready. Who cares what people think, and why should Dad care that I haven’t been home? Why not care about what I’m thinking, what’s amiss in my head? Go ahead and worry yourself silly over what people will think. What about what I’m thinking? What about worrying if I’m okay or having doubts and fears about making this huge step?
I insisted to Dave that our wedding be skeletal, absolutely nothing that my parents would have to pay for. I did not want to hear them fighting over money like they did when both my sisters got married. I bought my own dress, gathered a few flowers to hold, skipped having a reception, and insisted that Dave and I both sit in the front pews of the church and simply walk up when it is time for our vows. I refused to let my dad walk me down an aisle. Why? He has never talked to me once in my life about my relationship with Dave. Let him fume if he wants. My dad will not be “giving me away” at my wedding. Neither of my parents ever discussed with me my decision to get married; I think Mom was just relieved since she suspected Dave and I were already sleeping together. If Dad is mad now, it’s only because he’d rather stay home and not spend an evening around other people.
It’s easier to not argue with my parents when I’m stoned. I stand leisurely under the shower and imagine Dad timing how long I’m letting the water run. It’s a small bathroom right next to the kitchen-den, where he sits in his recliner watching the clock. Mom will probably prevent him from saying anything about the length of my shower today, for once. I wonder if Dave has finally written his vows, as he has been promising for days. Maybe he is also hesitant. In fact, he would probably be relieved if I called the entire marriage off. I know his mother would. Irene has never liked me anyway, acting like I’m corrupting her precious son, even warning Dave about marrying a girl from an unhappy family like mine. To her, I am a Jezebel, luring her pure and blameless boy into sex and damnation.
As I begin to blow dry my hair, Mom raps crisply on the bathroom door. “We need to leave now to get to the church on time.”
I hear the suppressed anger brimming over in her voice. Fine, I think, I’ll just leave my hair wet. She almost falls into the steamy bathroom as I abruptly swing open the door, naked and still dripping, taking care not to meet her eyes. “I’ll just finish getting ready at the church,” I announce glibly, grabbing a towel and, with my butt bare, heading to my old bedroom, firmly closing the door. I should have stayed somewhere else if I were even thinking of having a happy wedding. But it’s December 28th, and Dave suggested we spend a last Christmas alone with our families, then get married on the following Saturday.
On the painfully tense and silent ride to the church, I watch my parents, something that is also much easier to do when I’m high. From the back seat, I watch their familiar tense and edgy looks, reminding me that one reason I am getting married is to get out of their way, permanently. Getting into college wasn’t enough. I can’t seem to escape the grips of their control over me, even if it’s not a financial tether. During breaks at home, I am again poisoned by their slippery tentacles, like a jellyfish slithering around me.
I’m relieved to find my friends—Nancy, Carolyn, Mary D, and Mary—waiting in the dressing room. Carolyn and Mary D help me dry my hair, making me laugh as Nancy slides my dress out of the cleaner bag, a simple but sleek beige Belgian lace and silk gown I found at a quaint boutique shop in Austin. Larry sneaks in and takes pictures, giving me a wink. Carolyn suggests a few comedic poses and the entire occasion takes an uplifting turn. It feels good here in the dressing room with my girlfriends and their tender attentions. I want to ask them if we could all please stay in here for the rest of the evening.
On cue, Dave and I walk into the chapel from side doors and each sit near family and friends on opposite sides. Our friend Peter is playing recorded music that we selected for the occasion from the chapel’s balcony. The Baptist minister from Irene’s church reads some traditional scripture about marriage and adds a few comments before asking Dave and me to join him at the altar. I have been sitting in the pew watching the occasion in a detached state, my mind blank, until Mom gives me a sharp nudge to go up front.
Who is this person who blindly walks up the carpeted steps and, when directed, states her vows? As planned, I read the vows I have prepared, then Dave speaks his extemporaneously. At least they sound like he thought about them, and possibly even memorized them, though in my heart I believe he’s winging it. He can do that, seemingly wing his way through life while I beseech the gods for guidance and understanding and try like the devil to make sense out of it all. While the minister talks about rings, I fold up my vows in a tight tiny square and tuck them into my bouquet, later noticing they have fallen out, probably to be swept up by the janitor along with the trash.
“Somewhere Over the Rainbow” plays as Dave and I join hands and linger at the altar. This is Larry’s sign to gather everyone around for photos. The pastor slips out, surely wanting no further part of this casual and untraditional ceremony, and Irene attempts a smile that is as tight as my parents’. Festive friends make up for our somber parents in the next shot, offering grins that hint of the party we will all be heading to soon. First, however, the wedded couple and their families are having dinner at Pamela’s home, my sister having offered to prepare and serve a celebratory meal since I decided to forgo a rehearsal dinner and a reception.
Driving there, Dave slips a little baggie into my hand—a dose of magic mushrooms. “A wedding present! If we eat this toward the end of the dinner, we’ll be flying by the time we get to the party at Mark’s apartment.” Fine with me, since my tokes of hash wore off long ago, and I’m in sore need of the lift they gave. I listen to Dave talk of the bachelor parties he’s been to in the last few days and wonder about the parts I’m not hearing of as I gaze out the car window at Christmas lights streaming by. Suddenly, I suspect his desire to party as a single man is the real reason why we didn’t spend this past Christmas together.
I feel so tired, and doubt I can make it through this dinner, a party, a wedding night at some hotel, then drive to Austin and on to Port Aransas tomorrow for our honeymoon. Maybe we will see the whooping cranes that are migrating down. My eyes close and I imagine a V-line of geese and cranes soaring in the sky. Feeling empty and hollow, I fantasize floating up and being carried by supportive wind currents like a bird, wings flapping tirelessly, intent on arriving at some mysterious place programmed into the very core of my being.
Where am I going, I wonder, and will I ever get there?
Dave and I slip into a bathroom after Pamela’s thoughtfully prepared dinner and eat the baggie’s contents. Soon we say our goodbyes to everyone, though not without noticing our parents’ skeptical looks. We crash into the party midway through, the high from the psychedelic mushrooms coming on just as Dave anticipated. I dance away my earlier despair and let go of my fate in this marriage, leaning into the winter winds and trusting something I cannot quite pinpoint to carry me forward on life’s journey.
As the party winds down, Dave finds my marriage gift to him, a studio portrait of me in my wedding dress that our mothers requested for a newspaper announcement. Flip this special frame in its unique stand and there I stand in all my buck-naked glory.
My future sister-in-law had recommended the photographer, not knowing the guy did nude photography as well. During my appointment, he claimed he used to work for Hustler magazine. After he suggested this flip-frame idea, having a vague notion of the types of shots Hustler is known for, I asked to see his portfolio. A walk through his studio revealed tasteful and artistic nudes. Why not? I figured if anyone asked Dave what he loved about me, my body would likely top the list. Slipping out of my clothes, I numbly posed for a round of appropriate portraits with nothing but the same rose I held while modeling for the shots in my wedding dress. I twirled that thorny stem in my fingers as the camera shutter clicked. I felt dazed and detached from my choices and where they might be taking me. Looking down, I was surprised to find my fingertips bloody from holding the stem so tightly.
Our wedding night blurs on, a hotel bed in there somewhere, leaving Dallas, a four-hour drive to Austin where we repack bags for our short honeymoon in Port Aransas, another four hours away. A good hour into our drive to the coast, I remember that I left my birth control pills back at our apartment. Going to get them will add at least another two hours onto our trip.
“Oh, let’s skip taking them,” Dave encourages with a sly smile.
“Turn around,” I reply, not missing a beat. I do not even have to think about this, our history, and my doubts coalescing into this one, clear, insistent command.
RUNNING NAKED
1975 (age 23)—Austin, Texas
My feet are stinky and sweaty. I sit on the arm of our second-hand sofa while listening to Dave, Tim, and John as I untie my soccer cleats and slip off my filthy socks. While I’ve been running all over the University of Texas’ muddy soccer field—where I’m back in school to add a teacher certification and P.E. major to my degree in French—these guys have been scheming an afternoon of doing acid.
One of them has come across some high-quality LSD in the form of a tiny blue pill. I watch while all three of these men I trust, whether I should or not, detail why this would be a good idea. Dave, my husband of almost one year; Tim, my former lover; and John, another high school friend also here at the University who, like Tim, is a really good student taking tough courses. These guys are smart.
“It’s safe, PJ,” John assures me. I’ve known this guy since I was thirteen and love him fiercely. He has my back every time Dave fools around with another woman. I think John is gay, which a year later he confirms, and in turn I assure him I have his back, and he’ll always have my heart.
“We can go out to Rick’s place, on the edge of Austin, for a country hike. It’s a beautiful spring afternoon,” Tim says, smiling. He is unaware that by the end of the day, as the acid is wearing down, I will share with Dave that Tim, who left no outside evidence of sperm after having an orgasm during sex with
me, was most likely the father of the baby I illegally aborted five years ago.
“It’ll just be us,” Dave assures me, “and we’ll have an incredible time.” He’s very convincing, and I can tell the guys are gung-ho on this plan. I’m not sure why it matters if I go.
“I want another girl to come along,” I answer, standing up. “I’ll call Nancy.” Nancy is my closest girlfriend at this time. We met my senior year in college when she arrived on her bike at the very same park where I had ridden my bike, both of us lounging on the grass to study. On top of that, since we were both lean and athletic—we looked like two people who would be friends—I ambled over and introduced myself. We are now solid traveling, biking, and soccer buddies, and about to be co-conspirators in ingesting some acid. She’s probably smarter than any of the guys, having recently scored high enough on her LSAT to get into Harvard Law School.
We swallow the acid and are soon off on an afternoon hike, stopping in a grove of generous old Texas oaks that invite a leisurely climb. The limbs lazily stretch across an enclave with inviting places to sit high above the ground. We climb easily and chat casually, feeling the acid slowly seep into our consciousness. The tree we are sitting in seems as steeped in beauty as our faces when we look at one another communicating care, tenderness, and a willingness to experience life fully together.
Soon we are ready to move on, but I can’t budge. Unlike earlier, now the climb down looks like a precipitous drop. I’m frozen. By now everyone is on the ground trying to talk me down, but I sit still, clinging to my limb, absolutely unable to move or even talk. I listen as each of the people below entices me to scoot toward the trunk, then shimmy on down. The power of the acid is growing stronger by the minute. Down below, they giggle, then become silent, realizing I have not shifted an inch.
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