Rules Get Broken

by John Herbert

  Father Richardson looked at me for several seconds before saying anything. “Well,” he began finally, “let me try to tell you a few of the things I’ve learned about the death of a husband or wife.” He leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on his knees.

  “First, your life isn’t over. Not even close. It may seem that way today and tomorrow and next week, maybe even next year, but your life isn’t over. They say time heals all wounds, and most of the time that’s true. As time passes, so too will the pain of losing Peggy. That doesn’t mean you’ll forget her, because you won’t. But someday the memory of her won’t be painful.

  “Second, even though you find it hard to accept, you’re not alone. You have your children, and believe me, as time goes on, they’ll be a tremendous source of joy and comfort to you. You have your parents, and although they can’t take the place of your wife, they can still be a deep source of love and support if you let them. And you have the friends you and Peggy made over the years. Peggy’s death doesn’t mean your relationships with these people have to end. They can continue to exist just as strongly, just as deeply, as when Peggy was alive. The relationships will be different without Peggy here, that’s for certain, but they can and should continue.

  “Third, and this is the most difficult thing to believe, I’m sure…”

  He took a deep breath and held it to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. “Unless you want to be alone for the rest of your life, you don’t need to be. In time, if you let it happen, chances are you’ll meet someone, fall in love with her and start a whole new life with her.”

  “How could I ever do that, Father?” I asked. “How could I replace her with someone else?”

  “I didn’t say this someone new would replace Peggy, John. No one will ever ‘replace’ Peggy, nor should they. If someone new comes into your life, they come in on their own terms as their own person. They don’t take Peggy’s place. They create their own place.”

  Father Richardson looked down at his hands and then up at me. “You honored Peggy in life by being a faithful, loving husband. You do her no disservice now by living your life as God intended—with love at its center. Love of life, and if the opportunity presents itself, love for someone new. I like to think of our lives as a story, with each major event in our lives the chapters. Your marriage to Peggy was one of the chapters in your life story. That chapter’s over now, and there’s nothing wrong with you starting a new chapter when the time to do so is right.”

  “And when is the time right, Father? One year? Two years? Five years? I know that seems like a silly question, but how do I know when it’s okay to start that new chapter? Assuming I have the chance to.”

  “You’ll know when the time is right,” Father Richardson said with a smile. “Believe me. You won’t need anyone to tell you.”

  I thought about what he had said, and a question—perhaps more a challenge—came to mind.

  “What would you say, Father,” I said slowly, not really certain I should continue, “if I told you I took a woman out to dinner Sunday night?”

  “I’d say that’s a little unusual, but I’d also say you know in your heart whether it was the right thing or wrong thing to do.”

  “And what if I told you I really enjoyed being with her, talking to her? What if I said being with her made the pain of losing Peg go away for a few hours?”

  “I’d say that’s a little unusual, but I’d also say you know in your heart whether it was the right thing or wrong thing to do.” He paused. “Contrary to what you may believe, John, there are no hard and fast rules where love is involved. Either love lost or love found. My advice to you is to do what your heart tells you to do. You’re a good person, John. You know what’s right in God’s eyes. And God’s eyes are all that matter.”

  I looked at Father Richardson and nodded in understanding. He smiled in acknowledgement and sat back. “Follow your heart, John. It won’t lead you astray.”

  “Thank you, Father. For the wise words…and for the reassurance.”

  “I’m glad I was able to be of help. Give my best to your mom and dad, will you?”

  He rose from his chair, and I followed him down the hall and down the staircase. When we reached the side entrance, he pushed the heavy oak door open and extended his hand.

  “Good night,” he said. “And good luck.”

  Sixty-One

  Saturday, September 7th, was warm but dreary. It had started to drizzle intermittently around one in the afternoon, but by the time I pulled up in front of Nancy’s apartment at seven o’clock, the rain was falling steadily. I got out of the car and quickly pulled on my raincoat. As I did, I looked over my shoulder at the house across the street and then at the house to the right of Nancy’s, curious to see if my arrival had been noticed by anyone from last week’s welcoming committee. No one was in sight.

  I started up the walk to Nancy’s apartment, hunching my shoulders in a futile attempt to repel the rain. When I reached the side door, I saw that the inside door was open. Just as it had been on Sunday night. And again I heard music coming from inside the apartment. I rang the bell, and within seconds Nancy appeared.

  “Hi,” she said as she pushed open the screen door. “You’re right on time. Again.”

  “I told you I try,” I replied, taking a step into the hall.

  “Yes, you did. I just didn’t know whether to believe you.” She looked outside. “It’s raining hard now.”

  “Yeah. Started to come down pretty steady as I was leaving the house.”

  Nancy watched the rain for a second, and then she closed and locked the inside door. For some reason I was unnerved by her closing and locking the door.

  She turned to face me. “Let me take that,” she said, her arms outstretched for my raincoat. She watched me as I took the raincoat off, and that unnerved me too.

  “Kind of wet, I’m afraid,” I said as I handed it to her.

  “I’ll hang it in the bathroom. So how are you?” she asked over her shoulder as I followed her down the hall and into the kitchen.

  “I’m good. You?”

  “I’m good,” she answered lightly from the bathroom.

  I stood in the middle of the kitchen, feeling awkward and out of place.

  “Did you pick a movie for us to see?” Nancy asked when she reappeared a moment later.

  “I was going to leave that up to you. I meant to bring a paper so we could see what was playing, but I forgot. So hopefully you have a Newsday or a Daily News?”

  Nancy shook her head no.

  “Well, that’s not a problem if I can use your phone. I’ll call a few theaters, see what’s playing, get some times. Okay?”

  “Sure. Help yourself,” she answered with a smile, gesturing towards the phone on the wall.

  I started to walk towards the phone, but as I did, a flash of lightning lit up the side yard outside Nancy’s kitchen window. Less than a second later, a crash of thunder made us both wince and was followed by the sound of torrents of rain water hitting the aluminum canopy over her side door.

  “Wow,” I exclaimed as the thunder subsided. “That was close. You sure you want to go out tonight?”

  “What do you mean?” Nancy asked. “You’re already here.”

  “I meant outside. Are you sure you want to go to a movie?”

  “Well, if we don’t go to a movie, what’ll we do?” I detected a note of concern in her voice.

  “Can we stay here? Until the rain stops?”

  Nancy gave an uneasy chuckle. “Stay here? You want to stay here?”

  “Only if you’re comfortable with that.”

  She looked at me for a long time before responding. “We can stay here, I guess,” she said unenthusiastically. “At least until the rain stops. But then we should go to our movie.”

  Nancy looked around the kitchen at nothing in particular. Then she shook her head and rolled her eyes, probably in disbelief at what she had just agreed to. “Can I get you so
mething to drink?” she asked.

  I gave a laugh, remembering last Sunday’s drink. “I’ll have vodka on the rocks with a twist.”

  “My way or your way?” she asked as she opened the closet door and took out her bottle of Smirnoff.

  I laughed again and sat down at the kitchen table. I watched her take a rocks glass down from a cabinet over the stove, fill it with ice and then carefully pour two ounces of vodka into a glass jigger. And I couldn’t help smiling when, after pouring the vodka into my glass, she took a lemon out of her refrigerator, deftly peeled off a strip of its skin, gave it a firm twist and dropped it into my drink.

  Unbeknown to me, however, while I was watching Nancy make my drink, Nancy was in the process of scolding herself for what she perceived to be a lapse in good judgment. What have I done now? Nancy was asking herself. We were supposed to go to a movie, not stay here. I am really not comfortable with this at all. I mean, here we are again—alone in my apartment. What’ll I do if he starts kissing my fingers again? Or worse yet, asks me to take off my dress again? Damn it! I can’t believe I let this happen.

  Well, he’s here, and that’s that. Nothing I can do about it now. But I need to keep him talking. I need to ask him questions. Have to avoid long silences.

  “Here,” she said as she handed me my drink. “I think you’ll like this one better than the last one.” She gave me a little smirk, poured herself a glass of Chardonnay, and drinks in hand, we went into the living room.

  “Looks like you’re pretty well settled in,” I observed, noticing that the cardboard boxes I had seen Sunday night were gone.

  “I am. I still have stuff I want to get, but I’m all unpacked at least.”

  “Still like living alone?”

  Nancy smiled. “Yeah, I do,” she admitted almost sheepishly.

  “Your folks okay with it?”

  “I think they’re getting there. My dad wasn’t the problem. My mother was. She couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to keep living at home. She saw no reason for me to move out and thought it was a big waste of money. I think at one point, while I was looking at apartments, she even started to take it as a personal affront. You know, like suddenly her house wasn’t good enough for me anymore. And that really concerned me, because my mom and I are close. I mean we’re more like friends than mother and daughter, and I didn’t want to do anything that would destroy that relationship.”

  “But you moved out anyway.”

  “Yeah. I thought it was the right thing to do. I’m twenty-five, for God’s sake.”

  “Ancient,” I teased.

  “No, really…”

  “I’m just kidding. So how does your mother feel now?”

  “I think she’s kind of in a state of transition. She’s gone from anger to hurt to resignation. Hopefully, pretty soon she’ll hit acceptance.”

  “Well, you’ve got a great place here, and some day you’ll look back on the time you lived here, and you’ll have great memories.”

  Nancy smiled again. “I hope so,” she replied. “Good memories are a wonderful thing.”

  Almost instantly, her face clouded over. Damn, she thought. Why did I say that? Questions. I need to ask questions.

  She forced a smile and changed the subject. “You said Sunday night you’d been a boater all your life. Have you really been boating all all life?”

  “Most of it. According to my father, I was boating before I was born—he and my mother used to go canoeing all the time while she was pregnant with me.”

  “Did your family always have sailboats?”

  “No. No sailboats back then. Just small powerboats.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, let’s see. When I was four or five, my folks had a sixteen-foot outboard runabout. And when I was eight, my father had a twenty-four-foot cabin cruiser named Escape.”

  “Did you ever have a boat of your own? Before your sailboat, I mean?”

  “Yeah, I did,” I answered, marveling to myself at how clear some memories still were. I can’t remember what Peg’s voice sounded like, I thought, but I can remember the boat I had twenty-five years ago like it was yesterday. Why is that?

  I shook off the darkness and focused on Nancy’s question. “Around the time my father bought Escape, my grandfather built me an eight-foot dinghy, a wooden pram. You know, the kind with the flat bow? Then when I was ten, I bought a five-horsepower engine for it with my snow shoveling money, and my father fitted the dinghy with a little mahogany front deck, a steering wheel and a remote throttle. So instead of a three-person dinghy, I wound up with a one-person speedboat. At least that’s how I looked at it. I tell you, that little thing moved. And then, when I started to make money with my band, I bought a seventeen-foot Commodore. A beautiful wooden lap strake runabout with a fifty horsepower Evinrude. Which was a lot of power in those days. That was a beautiful boat! My pride and joy.”

  “Do you like the smell of gasoline?” Nancy asked suddenly.

  Her question took me totally by surprise. For a second I had no idea what she was talking about, and then I knew. “Yes! Yes! I do. I love the smell of gasoline, and when I smell gasoline I think of boats. Weird, but I do. You too?”

  “Me too,” Nancy replied. “I love the smell of gasoline. And creosote. And the smell of a wooden boat on a hot summer day. That combination of paint, caulking, oil, gasoline and…wood. And the smell of salty air. I love it all. The best times I ever had growing up,” Nancy continued, “were on my parents’ and grandparents’ boats. I can still remember waking up in my bunk to the smell of coffee brewing on the alcohol stove. And the morning dew on the decks and in the cockpit and how glass smooth the water was early in the morning before any breeze came up. And how my job was to sweep the companionway and the main salon every morning after breakfast. I remember swimming all day, coming out of the water only for lunch and dinner. And waiting that hour before I was allowed back in so I wouldn’t get a cramp. I had so much fun fishing in my grandfather’s dinghy with my brother, clamming at low tide, eating whatever we caught for dinner. What wonderful times.”

  “You got that right,” I agreed, equally deep in reverie.

  Nancy interrupted my thoughts with another question. “You said you bought one of your boats with money you earned with your band?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What instrument did you play?”

  “Drums. I was the drummer in a rock and roll band called ‘The Majestics.’” I couldn’t help grinning at the thought of The Majestics and the stream of memories the name brought to the surface.

  “How big a group?”

  “There were five of us—lead guitar, rhythm guitar, bass and electric organ. And me on the drums.”

  “Were you good?”

  “Yeah, we were. I have to say we were. We started out playing at church youth group functions, then at class dances and proms at local high schools, and then at beach clubs and bars. Made a lot of money and had some unbelievable experiences. The band also gave me a chance to be somebody—to stop feeling like a loser.”

  “What do you mean?” Nancy asked, confused by my admission.

  I let out a little sigh. I hadn’t really intended to go down this road, but I was committed now. “When I was a little kid, I was always picked on. Don’t know why. Maybe because I was soft. Maybe because I wore glasses. Who knows? But picked on I was. Things were so bad at one point while I was in grade school that my mother drove me to and from school every day. Otherwise the kids would push me through the hedges of a house on the way to school and throw my books all over the street.”

  I gave a cynical snort at the thought of my pain back then. “Anyway, humiliation and low self-esteem were very much a part of my life. I remember one day in the third grade, the gym teacher, Mr. Elliot…God, I remember this like it was yesterday…picked Bobby Goodman and Peter Erland as team captains for kickball and told them to pick their team members. So Bobby and Peter, little shits that they were, with great cerem
ony picked their teams one by one until finally they’d selected everyone but a short, hopelessly fat kid and me. And there I stood for what seemed like an eternity, in the middle of the gymnasium, with all my classmates standing along the walls of the gym watching, waiting, giggling, while Bobby and Peter negotiated between themselves as to who would get the fat kid and who would get me.”

  “What a nightmare,” Nancy exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “When it was time for me to go into seventh grade,” I continued, “my folks sent me to St. Paul’s School for Boys in Garden City. And nothing changed. My first year there I spent the second half of every lunch hour—the time when we were allowed outside before afternoon classes—hunkered down underneath the bleachers out by the football field, hiding until the second bell so no one would beat me up.

  “Then two things happened. First, I started to lift weights in eighth grade. So by the time I started ninth grade, I’d lost the baby fat and gained some muscle. And the bullies left me alone. And second—this is where the band comes in—some of the kids on the sophomore class dance committee knew about The Majestics, and they asked us to play for the dance. Which we did.

  “And let me tell you, my classmates were amazed at how good The Majestics were and at how good I was on the drums. That night literally changed the rest of my high school experience. So…a long story, but the band gave me a new lease on life when I very badly needed one.”

  I took a long sip of my drink, the first in several minutes. “I didn’t mean to keep going on like that,” I apologized. “Sometimes the answer to a question just leads to other things, I guess. I’m sorry for talking so much.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Nancy replied. “If I didn’t want you to talk, I wouldn’t have asked the questions.”

  “What surprises me,” I said, “is that you’ve only asked me about my distant past, so to speak. You know what I mean. No questions about my being married. No questions about my wife. No questions about her death. No questions about stuff like that. Even though I know you must have them.”