Our First Love

by Anthony Lamarr

  “This is Nigel.”

  “Mr. Aman, I’m glad you called.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re right. I’d only known Barney for a short time, but long enough to know that he was a great guy.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll stop by tomorrow.”

  After hanging up with Richard Aman, but before he could turn off the ringer, the phone rang again. It was Lillian. She called to tell Nigel he had received several interview requests, but she informed everyone that he was unavailable. And that’s when I discovered why our fifteen minutes never came. Lillian had been gatekeeping.

  The next day, Nigel changed the phone number to an unlisted one.

  * * *

  As far back as I could remember, Nigel had been a passive observer. He always had the ability to detach from everything around him— to become unaffected. That didn’t mean he wasn’t compassionate. Nigel was the most caring person I knew. If you needed him, he’d be there. But you had to let him know you needed him because he probably wouldn’t realize it on his own.

  Nigel could be charming too. At least he could when he wanted to be. And when he’s not trying, he could even be funny. Most of all, Nigel was thoughtful. If you asked anyone who knew him, they’d tell you that they considered him a good friend. But if you listened closely for what they didn’t say, you’d realize that none of them really knew him. It’s not their fault, though. Nigel never let anyone inside our world. We didn’t have any real friends and no one ever called or stopped by to visit.

  That’s why I didn’t get Nigel’s stressing about Barney Aman. Nigel got more than a little pissed off when I agreed with Lillian. Barney’s death was our ticket to the big-time. We had an exclusive that could’ve taken us places, and he walked away from it.

  * * *

  When we “met” Barney, I saw a reflection of two men. It was something about his restrained manner—the practiced way he carried himself. Nigel saw Barney’s regal demeanor as a product of his privileged upbringing, but I thought he was way too put together. The man you saw when you met Barney was the sculpted façade he wanted you to see. This sculpted façade became even more gouging as Barney the Candidate marched toward the governor’s office.

  It didn’t take very long for me to realize there was more to Barney than what we had seen when we met him at his campaign headquarters the day after he declared his candidacy. Barney had never held an elected office, so his candidacy came as a surprise to the media, the political arena, and to everyone who knew Barney. However, his impeccably furnished headquarters on Monroe Street, a few blocks from the Capitol, and his high-profile staff challenged what he described as, “…waking up a few mornings ago consumed by an urgent need to enter politics.” In my mind, Barney was so full of it.

  Waiting for us in the downstairs lobby was Eddie Johnson, a cartoonish man recognized more for his laughable efforts to hide his balding head beneath an assortment of outlandish toupees than for his political savvy. At five-five and 160 pounds, Eddie didn’t look like the kind of man who could craft the campaigns of three incumbent congressmen—two in the House, one in the Senate. Eddie laid out Barney’s political stance as he led us up the stairs to Barney’s office. The door was open, so we walked right in.

  Barney was outside on the patio, overlooking Monroe Street. As soon as Eddie walked out the office and closed the door, Barney breezed inside like the wind carried him. He closed the French doors, stepped off a cloud, and walked up to us. He served a warm, transparent smile. “Hi. I’m Barney Aman, Florida’s next governor.” Nigel and I thought Barney’s dramatic entrance was scripted, and that was the last thing we agreed on.

  Nigel never saw Barney’s reflection. At least he pretended not to see the reflection of a man Barney kept locked away, hidden from prying eyes. The public, including Nigel, was captivated by Barney and clamored to hear every carefully chosen word that rolled off his tongue. They watched his every move. I found it hard to believe that only three people saw Barney’s reflection: me, Barney, and the woman who armed a manila envelope marked, Deliver to Addressee Only, with a copy of her husband’s death certificate and a news clipping describing his suspicious death and mailed it to Nigel.

  * * *

  Nigel worried too much about things that had nothing to do with our life. For the past three days, he’d been sitting in front of the television watching The Weather Channel non-stop. He left earlier today to go by Richard Aman’s office, but as soon as he walked back in the door, he plopped down on the sofa and turned the television to The Weather Channel. Tonight, a two-hour documentary about Alaska premiered on The Weather Channel. After the documentary went off, Nigel began agonizing over weather in the frozen state even though we lived in sunny Florida. “It’s unseasonably warm in Alaska,” he turned and said, “and scientists are starting to worry.” I didn’t have the heart to say it, but I couldn’t stop the look in my eyes from screaming, I don’t give a damn. Nigel didn’t see my nonchalance as a sign of disinterest. Instead, he saw a blank canvas on which he could paint a much more detailed image. “Global warming is one of the biggest issues facing the world today,” he sketched. I pretended to listen. Pretending to listen isn’t as easy as it appears, but I’ve mastered the technique. It takes a lot of practice to get it right. I started by looking—not staring—in his general direction. Staring can give you away. “Scientists have determined that the polar caps are melting,” Nigel continued to draw. “Did you know that?” Unconsciously, I detected a pause in his voice so I nodded slightly. It wasn’t a yes or no nod, but more of a maybe nod. “If the polar caps continue to melt at the rate they are melting now…”

  I heard Nigel, but I wasn’t listening to him because there were things much closer to home to worry about. I was about to go crazy wondering what we’re going to do now that he’d quit our job. We’re not broke, so money wasn’t the problem. We had enough saved and invested to live comfortably for the rest of our life. The real problem was these walls. Nigel would never admit it, but he would much rather stay here and hide out than to be part of the world out there. He ventured out since I couldn’t. He’s my link to everything outside these walls. His life was my life, so, if Nigel didn’t have a job to go to, then we didn’t have a life outside this house. This was it.

  * * *

  Even though I couldn’t make myself step outside this house, it didn’t mean something’s wrong with me. I used to tell myself that on a daily basis, but these days, the only time I had to remind myself of this was when I’d been shut up in this house for too long. It’d only been a couple of days, so I didn’t have to convince myself of my sanity, at least not yet. What’s scary to me was the knowledge that Nigel wasn’t interested in looking for another job right now, and I didn’t know when he would be interested. That meant I could expect day after day and week after week of being surrounded by these walls. That’s enough to make a person go crazy.

  * * *

  Three years ago, after I’d had a very bad Monday morning, I found a way to establish my own connection to the world outside these walls. It was via a blog, “The (not so true) Way I Remember It.” Funny, huh? Well, that was the point. I didn’t want to bring people into my claustrophobic world; I wanted to be out there with them and to be part of their world. And then, I wanted, no, needed a little humor in my life. The blog had been successful on both accords. I had almost 25,000 subscribers, and every now and then, I got to laugh until I cracked up about the fun-filled life I pretended to have lived.

  Once a week, I wrote and posted a blog about the way life used to be back in the day. Or at least the way I imagined I would remember life back then if I could. Sometimes, the columns reflected nostalgically about the good times I was sure we had growing up in the ’80s and ’90s, while others reflected earnestly on the triumphs and the tragedies that were seemingly connected like Siamese twins to everyone’s life. It’s no secret to my subscribers that the memories I wrote about were made up. I was upfront abo
ut my memory loss and admitted that I didn’t remember anything about my life prior to waking up from a coma eleven years ago, so they knew that I juxtaposed myself into these tales of an unforgettable childhood and the good ol’ days. Judging from the comments to the blog, it has touched a lot of people out there. I took the wild guess that they were touched since, although I probably never lived any of the memories that I wrote about, deep inside my heart, I felt like I had.

  I’m sure Nigel read the blog, but he’d never mentioned anything about it.

  * * *

  Another job wasn’t the only thing Nigel didn’t show an interest in. He’d never been much of a talker, which wasn’t a problem since I talked enough for both of us. But, except when he’s going on about the weather, Nigel hadn’t said much at all. I’d practically tried to reach inside him and pull out conversations on several occasions. I had to be careful, though. If I pulled too hard or too often, he’d retreat to his bedroom and leave me out here talking to myself.

  * * *

  This was me talking to myself. I didn’t have anyone else to talk to because Nigel didn’t bother to get out of bed today. He’d been shut up in his bedroom all day. I was not stressing about it though. I talked to myself all the time, mostly to say things that I couldn’t say to Nigel; words that I had to speak out loud, if only in my mind, since thoughts weren’t real until they are verbalized or lived.

  I imagined how it must feel to run. I couldn’t remember ever running, but as I gazed out the window at people jogging around Myers Park, the freedom of unbridled motion resurrected my soul. I started running. My heart raced as I accelerated and challenged the wind, overtaking time. I was running. Running. Running until I slammed head-on into these walls. My trepidation and these unyielding walls were formidable hurdles.

  * * *

  We hadn’t been to the grocery store since two weeks before Barney died. So tonight’s dinner, like last night’s and the night before that, was whatever I could scrape together. There were six cans of minestrone soup, two cans of green peas, and a can of corned beef in the cabinet. Two ice trays had the freezer to themselves. A pitcher of water and a bowl of minestrone soup Nigel had for lunch fought for space in the refrigerator. The rice container was half full. And we’d given out of sugar three days ago.

  “How does corned beef and rice sound?” I asked Nigel.

  Instead of responding, Nigel sat there contemplating whether he wanted corned beef and rice or something else. Why? It wasn’t like he was gonna get off his sorry ass and go get anything else.

  “Nigel, we have six cans of minestrone soup, a can of corned beef, two cans of green peas, and a cup of rice,” I informed him as I walked into the living room. “The menu’s either corned beef and rice or more minestrone soup.”

  “Corned beef and rice,” Nigel suggested, then stood up and turned off the ceiling fan. He sat back down, picked up the TV remote, and changed the channel.

  “Thank God,” I said. “I was starting to see Locals On The 8s in my sleep.”

  As I walked back to the kitchen Nigel announced, “We’ll go to the store tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” I acknowledged with a guilty smile. “I’ll make out a shopping list tonight.”

  Nigel hated minestrone soup. I was not that crazy about it either, but I kept it in stock for times like this.

  * * *

  It was almost 3 a.m. and I was in bed, pretending to sleep. I know it’s kind of crazy to pretend to sleep when you’re the only person in the room, but my reason was a good one, which exempted me from the crazy label. Sleep didn’t always come easy for me, and it’s due to these dreams that I kept having. Tonight, before I woke up, I dreamed that Nigel and I were at a beach swimming, but the beach was inside this house. Last night, I dreamed we were at a concert, but the concert was in the living room. Every night, it’s a different dream, but we’re always inside this house. I pretended sleep so I could pretend to dream of being outside…anywhere outside.

  * * *

  Barbed wire. That’s what these walls were made of. From ceiling to floor, floor to ceiling. Barbed wire brandished millions of dutiful razors sharp enough to deli-slice flesh, memories, and hope.

  * * *

  I wanted to hate Barney Aman for taking the easy way out. I wanted to hate him because Nigel was unemployed, which meant we didn’t exist outside this house. More than anything, I wanted to hate him for unearthing the memory of the rueful Monday morning three years ago when I tried to abandon our life. But I couldn’t.

  CHAPTER 3

  The last Thursday in June turned out to be a day of firsts. The day began with a cluster of fugitive clouds, bringing the summer’s first rain. It was only eight days into the summer, but after three months of breathing stale, dusty air and toasting in a sweltering heat wave, the scattered showers were graciously welcomed by closed umbrellas.

  For the first time in Richard Aman’s well-documented life, he tried to elude the spotlight when he stepped outside the doors of First Baptist Church. There was nowhere for him to hide from the squadron of reporters, including Lillian, or the roguish lenses seizing him from every angle as he trailed his son’s mahogany coffin. Today, he was not the charismatic political icon who skillfully used the media to make sure he never lost an election in his forty-five-year career. Today, he was the grieving parent of a man who took his own life. He was a father standing at his son’s grave while a woman with an operatic voice sang a stirring version of “Amazing Grace.” He was a man living a day that was not supposed to be part of his life. And he wondered if anyone really saw him.

  A woman with doleful eyes stood off from the mourners and spectators gathered at Springhill Cemetery. She poked the ground with the tip of her orange and green umbrella as the drizzling rain soaked through her black dress and low-heeled black pumps. She was one of the inspired. She became a crusader. She tacked flyers on street poles, taped them on store windows, and passed them out at local housing projects. She even organized a voter registration drive. And today, for the first time in her life, the woman, Karen, cried for a man she never met.

  Today was a first for another woman who no one noticed. It wasn’t that they didn’t see her; they did. But to them, she was simply another lamentable face in the montage of mourners. They didn’t see her eyes dart back and forth between the flower-draped coffin and the man standing behind Richard Aman. That man was Nigel Greene, who attended the funeral at the personal request of Richard Aman. Nigel saw the woman staring at him, and although it was the first time he’d seen her, he knew that the woman was Frances Pelt. And Nigel knew that she was feeling something she’d felt only once before—the world shifting under her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” Nigel said under his breath to Frances.

  Frances had hoped that Nigel wouldn’t be at the funeral because, unlike everyone else, Nigel knew why Barney fled. Barney may have pulled the trigger that ended his life, but it was an angry phone call from a dejected lover three nights earlier that loaded the black pistol and a manila envelope armed with a death certificate and newspaper clipping that pointed the barrel at Barney’s head. Frances knew the kindly man mouthing the words, “I’m sorry,” was Nigel and recognition was something she didn’t want. She turned to run, but her feet could not find traction on the mutating earth. Before she realized it, she was on her hands and knees. Frances tried to will herself to get up, but her soul questioned why. Until nine months ago, when Richard Aman and a gang of political bigwigs told Barney they were going to make him Florida’s next governor, Frances shared a life with Barney’s reflection. For nine years, they lived in a veiled world that Barney actualized. After her husband’s death, Frances resented the boundaries Barney set for their relationship even more, but not enough to stop loving him. She still loved him. And she knew Barney loved her, too. After all, it was Barney who made her believe love was love whether shared during the pyramidal hours of life or amid the ephemeral twinkling of dreams. But today, when it didn’t matter at all, she felt
free to express her love—free to not care how many eyebrows were raised or fingers and umbrellas pointed. There was no reason to care. So she lay on the ground beside Barney’s grave and waited to be buried.

  Firsts were few and next to none in Nigel’s life, but, when he walked over to Frances and extended his hand, he sensed something was about to happen to him that had never happened before.

  “Barney died,” Nigel told Frances. “Not you.” Frances looked up at Nigel but quickly turned away. “Take my hand,” Nigel offered. “Please.” Frances’ body shook as she placed her muddied hand in Nigel’s.

  Suddenly, the rain stopped falling on Nigel and Frances. He looked up and saw Karen holding her umbrella over them. “Thanks,” Nigel said. Karen put her arm around Frances as Nigel helped her stand as the three of them made their way through the inquisitive stares, the earsplitting whispers, the probing camera lenses, and the wrought iron gates of Springhill Cemetery.

  As soon as the gates were behind them and the sidewalk gave Frances a momentary foothold on the shifting earth, she turned to Nigel and Karen and said, “Thank you. I can make it from here.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Karen asked. “Are you parked nearby?” Before Frances could reply, she suggested, “It’s raining. Let me walk you to your car.”

  “That’s okay. I’m parked right up the street.” Frances mustered a grateful smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  Nigel turned to Karen. “Thanks for helping out.”

  “Just doing my part,” Karen responded with a thoughtful smile. “God bless.”

  Nigel watched as she closed her umbrella and walked away without bothering to look back or even glance over her shoulder. It’s good she didn’t. If she had, she would’ve seen the motley look on Nigel’s face when he turned to say good-bye to Frances and found proof. Frances got in a blue Bonneville parked on the curb. A Bonneville with a Duval County tag. Duval County includes Jacksonville. A Jacksonville postmark was stamped on the manila envelope. Proof that Frances mailed the envelope, and validation that she helped pulled the trigger.