Deadline

by Randy Alcorn

  “This is one of my favorite places. I just love the scallops here. Have you ever had them? No? Well, you just have to. They’re wonderful.”

  After a few minutes of soaking in Mary Ann’s appearance and imbibing her delicious scent, Jake found himself losing interest in the long string of small talk bubbling from her. His mind slipped into cruise control. Soon he was operating on instinct, saying “uh-huh,” laughing and responding briefly at what he trusted were the right times.

  His mind withdrew, thinking about Mary Ann and what she represented from his past. Her stylish clothes, her low neckline, her suggestive comments, and the way she carried herself was all too familiar. Twenty-five years ago he and Doc used to joke about what was then called “women’s liberation,” and later feminism. Women were “liberated” to sleep around like men, which was the liberation of every man’s dream. Men didn’t have to think of a woman’s honor and purity anymore. Guys didn’t have to feel responsible for seducing a girl because now she played the game too.

  He remembered what they used to call sexually liberated women. “Easy chicks.” “Whores.” “Sluts.” They called them by parts of their anatomy. They were things, not people. The women he’d always respected most were those who hadn’t got swept away in the revolution. When he met her as a college freshman, Janet had been one of those. But the music and climate of the day, along with their free-thinking professors, with Jake’s eager help, wore down Janet along with what seemed like a whole generation of young women. They became “free”—free to be ogled and used by men, cheap characters in their bragging tales of conquest.

  Janet and Jake had started having sex five months after they met and were living together by their junior year of college. Jake thought it was great. The privileges of marriage with none of the responsibilities. That was when he first learned to take Janet for granted. Now, after three years of divorce, he recalled how much he’d respected her their first date—a respect he’d lost the night she became one more easy girl. It surprised Jake to find himself thinking about such things when his mind and hormones should have been focused on the obvious.

  “And she was wearing the most gorgeous dress. And you know who the man with her turned out to be?” Mary Ann continued at high speed, Jake still smiling and nodding and pretending he was interested, while following his own inner rabbit trail.

  I’ve made a career of being a feminist, Jake recently confessed to his journal, the closest thing he had to a priest. Over the years he’d gone to the feminist marches, the prochoice rallies. He’d been hailed as one of those sensitive modern men. He loved the attention, the affirmation, the respect they gave him, and yes, the sex. He could play the role—the macho man, to get one kind of woman in bed, and the egalitarian man, to get another kind of woman in bed. For years he never admitted this hypocrisy. It was Finney who pointed it out to him, and when he did Jake steamed and fumed and even tried to commiserate with Doc, who only said, “So what? Who cares how you get ’em in the sack, as long as you do?”

  “Jake? Jake! Earth to Jake! Are you ready to order?” Mary Ann laughed and the waiter gave a confused “do you need more time” look at Jake.

  “Uh, I’m sorry. Guess my mind was wandering.” After promising he’d eat a few of her scallops, Jake ordered prime rib, acting as if he came to places like Anthony’s a lot, and trying hard but unsuccessfully to remember protocol at an establishment that boasted live musicians rather than a juke box.

  “What’s on your mind, Jake? Dreaming? Hope I’m in the dream.” Mary Ann gave him a warm smile, squeezed his hand, then excused herself to use the ladies’ room, leaving his mind to resume its wandering. It did, like a rushing stream, changing directions slightly with each rock.

  In his sixteen years of marriage Jake had a number of one night stands and two affairs, and now he couldn’t even put faces to some of the bodies he’d been in bed with. Janet had been hurt deeply by his indiscretions, from the Playboys and Penthouses he’d stopped hiding to the trysts with women on out of town “investigative journalism” excursions. He knew she knew about those escapades as certainly as if he’d told her, which he hadn’t.

  Janet had protected herself the only way she knew how—telling herself it was somehow okay or she didn’t care, then compensating or retaliating through indiscretions of her own that proved to herself she was still desirable. Always, of course, with “sensitive men,” the kind the women who slept with Jake thought he was. These men were just like Jake, sensitive to the woman they wanted now, insensitive to the one they’d vowed before man and God to always love and cherish.

  Why should a man marry a woman if she would give him all she was now and he was free to move on when he wished, harvesting women like a field of corn? Why take on the “in sickness” and “for worse” parts of the marriage vow when he could have her “in health” and “for better” and just take a walk if it became too much for him to handle?

  Mary Ann returned, full-bodied hair bouncing and shining, a magnet attracting every man in the restaurant. Jake was disgusted with himself, sitting there ruminating and philosophizing, when he was with such a beautiful woman. He could have her tonight if he wanted her, and what sane man wouldn’t? But despite himself, Jake kept thinking about where it would go, and especially where it wouldn’t. He seemed to tire of women easily. He had tired of Janet, tired of her little annoying quirks that had once been cute and endearing. Tired of her habit of telling him in detail her dreams from the night before, as if such things should interest him. He had written a column once saying it should be illegal for spouses to tell their dreams, that there should be an 800 number to call for this kind of spousal abuse. He knew he’d hurt Janet’s feelings, and she’d not mentioned her dreams for months afterward.

  “You look great tonight, Jake.”

  Jake knew what he was supposed to say now. “Not as great as you, Mary Ann. You look…well, stunning.”

  Mary Ann blushed. There, they’d said it. They both looked great. Now, what was inside them? Doc would tell him he was crazy for even thinking this. If you could get a woman like Mary Ann in bed, what did it matter what was inside her? Suddenly Jake realized Doc and Mary Ann must have slept together. He knew Doc. And if he was reading Mary Ann right, the two of them couldn’t have worked together long before their chemistry did the inevitable. Inevitable, that is, when there were no moral restraints to hold them back. Thinking of Betsy and the children, Janet and Carly, Finney and Sue and their family cast a dark shadow over what, Jake told himself, should have been a spine-tingling evening of fantasy and anticipation.

  “You know that incredible ballroom at Floren’s? Diana and Jason—Jason’s her new boyfriend, this hunk that’s a partner at Gleason, Underwood, and Dodge—they decide ‘hey, let’s get some action going here,’ so they call over this waiter…”

  Mary Ann was uneasy with gaps in the conversation, and Jake was contributing the gaps. He continued to nod, though he’d lost track of where Mary Ann had been and hadn’t the slightest idea where she was going. Her voice was a distant echo, her words hovering in the air about him. He could grab them from the air when necessary and let them float away when not. Most of them floated.

  He thought about sex, since it could be his tonight if he so decided. Even in the pre-herpes, pre-AIDS era, sleeping around was always a great fantasy, but never a fulfilling reality. After sex, the worst part was being in bed the rest of the night with someone you didn’t know but had to pretend to feel comfortable with. There was something terribly sad and lonely about it. He felt so empty and awkward, like a man who’s smoked a pack of cigarettes and has no use for the package. He just wants to toss it. But there it is, in bed beside him all night, waiting to face him in the morning. Would Mary Ann be such a package tonight?

  Sex had become more and more a chore. “Are you HIV negative? Are you sure? Who’s the last person you slept with? Do you know who he’d been sleeping with? Did you use a condom? Do you have a condom now?”

  So much
for the free and spontaneous love without consequences Jake had bought into in the sixties and seventies. It had given birth to the chaos and diseases of the eighties and nineties.

  Again, Jake could hear Finney’s voice. “God doesn’t intend us to be promiscuous. All these diseases are just a reminder.”

  Not too subtle a reminder. So far six reporters at the Trib had died of AIDS, and others were wasting away before his eyes.

  Sex was an anesthetic that for a short time made Jake forget how lonely he was. But every time, as soon as the deed was done, his loneliness deepened. It was fulfilling only for the moment. And he wanted more from life than fleeting moments. But here was Mary Ann. Incredibly attractive. Clearly available. Not just available, but eager. Served up to him on a platter. The kind of woman who would have revved up his engines just a few years ago. She did now, but something was different. Before, he would have been figuring out how to get her in bed. Now he was trying to figure out how to avoid it.

  Amazing how my strategy’s changed, he thought, with some disappointment in himself.

  Dessert was served, some fancy thing with a French name. Jake couldn’t tell what it was even as he ate it. Mary Ann said, “Don’t eat too much, Jake. I was thinking we could make some dessert of our own later on.”

  She smiled coyly, and it had the desired effect. Why not take her home with him or spend the night at her place? What would it really hurt?

  Jake’s mind was flooded with images of Janet early in their relationship. Their idealism, the hopeful and expectant anticipation that each new day would bring a great adventure. The thrill of just being together. The dreams they shared. If only he’d never had that experience. Perhaps then he could be satisfied with the superficial. But he knew better. He knew what it was to love, to laugh, and to dream with the woman of his dreams. But they’d lost it. He’d lost it. It seemed the ultimate tragedy to have your dreams dashed, to watch the wild stallion of love grow old like a broken down mare, ending up a crumpled heap at the glue factory.

  They’d been idealistic, unrealistic, he’d decided. The concerns of career and self-advancement, which he told himself were for her as much as him, had overshadowed their love. He became an absentee husband, an out of touch father. The hundreds of photographs of Carly he took when she was a baby dwindled to dozens a year by the time she was in third grade, and virtually none when she reached junior high. Janet, with no interest or talent in picture taking, had become the family photographer, as well as the family everything-else. Jake just wasn’t there. He always intended to slow down at work, spend more time at home, do more with the family, but it never happened. Work was more important than home. He’d said the opposite, even in his columns, but Janet reminded him that his schedule, his choices, didn’t lie. They reflected his true priorities.

  Many nights just before dozing off, he’d heard Janet’s quiet sobs, but pretended not to notice. He didn’t want one more late night guilt trip about how much she and Carly needed him. He couldn’t make her understand most women were a lot worse off, and many would gladly trade places with her. She seemed less the girl he had pursued and married than a nervous, frightened, and critical middle-aged woman. He’d given up on the marriage. It took too much effort. The divorce seemed anticlimactic, a funeral taking place years after the death. He’d written a column about how divorce was the honest thing to do and often the best choice and didn’t have to hurt the children. It had been a popular column.

  “Jake. Jake, you’re drifting again. It’s okay if you’re fantasizing, as long as I’m in the fantasy.” Mary Ann giggled. “Oh, look. There’s Dr. Henry from the hospital. I’m going to go say ‘hi.’ Don’t eat my dessert!” Mary Ann smiled and swept away.

  “I won’t.”

  He watched Mary Ann work her way across the room, admiring her walk. He thought of Finney, who years ago had seen a wall coming up between himself and Sue and determined to tear it down. Finney and Sue. How often he’d envied them and the freshness and vitality of their relationship. So had Janet. They offered hope. They sent the message that yes, a good marriage was possible. Marriage could last, marriage could survive, even thrive. But that was Finney. Always different. Always beating the odds.

  Janet filed the papers, but it was Jake’s divorce, and both knew it. He wanted out, he wanted the easier life. No commitment, no apologies, no regrets. It was a dignified divorce with all the modern mature no-fault trappings. “We’re still friends, you know.” “It was best for both of us.” “It was best for Carly too.” Yeah, right. He’d even gotten a “Congratulations on Your Divorce” card from Lenny at the Tribune. Everyone got a big kick out of it. Lenny had been divorced three times. He was the expert. “Happy Divorce”? Yeah, sure, they were all better off.

  Mary Ann returned, talking on and on about this doctor, and how Doc said he was one of the best surgeons in town, and how he owned this incredibly beautiful mansion with an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and how she’d been there for a party once. Jake tried to pay better attention, feeling guilty his mind had been there so little.

  When the check came, he put down his VISA, but she reminded him it was her treat and took her billfold out of her purse. Running her finger over the ridges, she selected from the row of cards a shiny American Express. A few minutes later she signed it off, refusing to let Jake even leave the tip. He inwardly groaned at the total, calculating that the tip alone could have paid for two full meals at Lou’s Diner, plus milkshakes and coffee.

  As they walked to the door, Mary Ann put her arm in his and pressed up against him, bumping her hip against his. His resolve began to weaken. She suggested since they both had cars he could follow her to her apartment. Her red-lipped smile beautifully framed her white teeth.

  Almost ready to say “yes” to the suggestion and all that was sure to follow it, Jake thought again of Janet and Carly and Finney and Sue and Betsy and Doc, and the empty carton of cigarettes and the lonely feeling of waking up next to someone you don’t know or love.

  “Listen, Mary Ann. I really enjoyed having dinner with you. Thanks for treating me. Maybe we can do it again some time. But, as you could tell, I’ve got a lot on my mind, and I’m just not very good company right now.”

  Mary Ann promised, “I can take your mind off whatever it’s on. Come over. I guarantee I’ll make it worth your while.” The way she said it and the look on her face backed up the claim.

  “I’m sure you would, but I feel like I just need to go home alone.”

  Mary Ann looked confused and disappointed. “Well, it’s your choice. It was fun being with you. Please call me. I’d love to do it again. You’ve got my number.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  She pressed herself against him and kissed the edge of his lips. “Sure I can’t change your mind?”

  Jake swallowed hard. “No. Thanks. I need to go. See you.”

  Jake drove home, alternatively hating himself for being such a fool to let her go, then hating himself for being such a fool years ago when he let Janet and Carly go for what Mary Ann represented—pleasure without responsibility.

  Jake sat in his recliner drinking hot chocolate and flipping pages in a Grisham novel before realizing he couldn’t remember anything he’d read the last fifteen minutes. He wandered toward bed, turning off the last light. He listened to the steady Oregon rain drubbing the verandah, a sound he usually found comforting. Tonight it only reminded him of his aloneness.

  Jake tossed to the right, then the left, and the waterbed shook at his frustrated sleeplessness. A hot tear fell onto his pillow, first one then another. He thought about the stains on the pillow case. No problem. They’d come out in the wash. Besides, if they didn’t, who would ever see them?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The hearty aroma of dark Colombian coffee permeated Jake’s apartment. It slowly weaned him from a deep sleep. His first regret-filled impulse was to drag himself out of bed and go through the morning shave and shower routine he could do in his sleep, and ofte
n had. Then came the oh-so-sweet realization that the coffee wasn’t Colombian after all, it was Chocolate Macadamia Nut, which meant this was Saturday morning and he didn’t have to get up.

  Every weekday morning Jake’s automatic coffee maker sprang into action at 6:15. His alarm rang at 6:30, giving the coffee a fifteen minute chance to awaken him slowly, civily, before the alarm rudely took over. But he didn’t set an alarm for weekends. Coffee came on quietly at 8:00. But often Jake wasn’t up till 8:30 or 9:00. The brewing coffee was the only common element of weekends and weekdays. Yet even that was different. During the week it was dark Colombian. On Saturdays it was Swiss Almond or Chocolate Macadamia or whatever struck Jake’s fancy at his weekly grocery shopping, where he selected and ground his coffee.

  On a typical Saturday, he lounged around in his underwear or gym shorts till 11:00, postponing his shower until after a workout on his stair-stepper or cross country skiing machine. He’d catch up on his reading, maybe an old Ludlum or Hillerman or a new Clancy, check out a college ballgame or two. He felt the stubble on his face, prickly against his pillow case, and luxuriated in the fact that today no cold steel would touch his face, and no comb would attempt to bring order to the chaos that was his hair. There was no day like Saturday.

  Jake turned over, extracting his face from its deep impression in the pillow and breathing deeply the coffee-flavored air. Suddenly a wet nose pressed against his neck. Champ knew it was Saturday too. Jake had little time for him on weekday mornings. But on Saturdays they were pals. The chocolate brown and white spaniel’s nose, pressed up close against Jake’s face, looked like a brown electrical outlet. Champ wormed his way under the covers and joyfully immersed himself in his master’s morning scent.

  “Your blood’s getting too thin, fella,” Jake teased. Champ had been spoiled by his inside habits, including these periodic pilgrimages under the covers of Jake’s waterbed. Jake had named this Champ, the springer, after the golden retriever who spent many nights in Jake’s sleeping bag thirty-five years ago, out in the backyard, under the stars. The original Champ, Jake pondered, was the only other being who’d regularly spent time with the three musketeers. That dog accompanied Jake, Doc, and Finney in their wonder years, from about third grade until high school, when he went the way of all dogs.