Crying at Movies

by John Manderino

  “Fine,” I told her. “Had to see a man about a …” She was studying me carefully. “What,” I said, sitting down again.

  “Were you crying?” she asked.

  “No,” I told her, laughing at the notion. “Little bit,” I admitted.

  She nodded. “Do you always cry at sad movies?”

  This was our fifth date, my second time at her apartment, and our first sad movie together. I liked Marie an awful lot, and I was fairly certain she liked me too. We still hadn’t slept together but I was hoping to change that tonight. This crying-at-movies, though, could possibly hurt my chances.

  “I don’t ordinarily cry at movies,” I explained, “but sometimes I do get a little teary-eyed if it’s not only sad but also very … what’s the word I want … French word …”

  “Poignant?”

  “Exactly. If it’s sad in a poignant way, then, yes, I’m liable to shed a tear or two.”

  She nodded, adding this to her file of things about me. “That’s sort of … sweet,” she said, doubtfully.

  “So … you don’t? Ever?”

  “Cry at movies?” She shook her head regretfully.

  “Regardless how sad?”

  “Or poignant,” she added.

  I nodded, filing this.

  “Does that make me a cold person in your opinion?” she asked, point blank.

  “Of course not,” I assured her. “Crying at movies. Come on. What is that? Pretty silly. Pretty foolish, in fact. Don’t you think?”

  “Well …”

  “Do you think it’s foolish? You can say.”

  “I wouldn’t say foolish, necessarily.”

  “What would you say?”

  “A little unusual, that’s all. For a guy, anyway.”

  Stung, trying not to show it, I nodded and looked around—at the crammed bookcase, the basket of mail, the potted plant, the Navaho rug on the wall. “Of course, some people,” I said, “some women anyway, might find that rather appealing in a guy, crying at movies. Shows he has a, you know, a sensitive nature. A lot of women regard that very highly in a guy.”

  “I do too,” she assured me, and touched my leg. “I just don’t think crying at movies necessarily means someone has a sensitive nature.”

  “Possibly not,” I said, nodding some more, stung again. “But let me say this. A lot of people—not necessarily me, but a lot of people—might find it just a little bit unusual that a woman could sit through a film so moving, so … you know …”

  “Poignant?”

  “So moving, so poignant, without shedding a single tear. Some people might find that a little bit … well, troubling.”

  “Troubling,” she said.

  I nodded. “Little bit. For a woman. Sure.”

  “Because I don’t fall apart over some sappy, ridiculous—”

  “Sappy? You thought the movie was—”

  “And that hat of hers. Oh, my God.”

  “Her hat?”

  “That was, without a doubt, the silliest-looking—”

  “I don’t remember any—”

  “I was trying so hard not to laugh.”

  “At her hat?”

  “I was trying so hard.”

  Well, you could see she was hurt—eyes brimming, ready to spill—that was why she was lashing out at Celia Johnson’s hat. I said to her, “Marie …”

  “So why don’t you just go,” she told me, getting up and marching towards the closet, swiping at her eyes. “I honestly think that would be best.” She took my coat off the hanger—then suddenly stepped inside and closed the door on herself.

  I stood up. “Marie?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I went over there. “Hey,” I said.

  She still didn’t answer.

  I knocked. “You okay in there?”

  “Go away please.” She was definitely crying now.

  “I need my coat,” I told her, so she would open the door.

  She opened it just enough to drop my coat and quickly closed it again.

  I stood there. On our other dates she had seemed like such a levelheaded person, wonderfully so, and now this. “Marie?”

  No answer.

  “I’m not leaving while you’re in there,” I told her.

  “Suit yourself.”

  I tried to open the door but she was holding it firmly closed. I tried with both hands but she was strong for a woman and I was weak for a man, and gave up. “Marie, listen,” I said. “Are you listening?”

  “I’m right here.”

  “I don’t think you’re coldhearted, honest to God I really don’t. Just because you don’t cry at movies? That’s ridiculous. Look at me, I cry at them all the time and you’re right, it doesn’t make me a sensitive person. In fact? I’ll tell you a secret, and this is the truth: I never cry over things I ought to cry over, things in real life, and you know why? I’m not a hundred percent sure about this, but you know what I think? It’s because there’s no theme music in real life. Seriously. I think it’s because there’s no background music.”

  She didn’t say anything but I could sense her in there listening.

  I went further: “I’m going to tell you something, Marie, okay? I’ve never told this to anyone. At my father’s funeral—my own father, his funeral—practically everyone in the whole room was crying their eyes out, except for me. Even standing over the casket, looking down at him—nothing. I remember thinking, What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I cry? Why can’t I feel anything? But then, you know what happened? This is the truth. I was standing there with Mike, my brother Mike—he was crying and I was totally dry-eyed, totally ashamed of myself—but then the organist started playing “Amazing Grace,” very quietly, very tenderly, and I fell apart. Completely. I started sobbing. Mike had to practically hold me up. He had to help me back to my chair. And all the while, Marie—here’s the thing—all the while, I remember thinking to myself, Oh my God, you’re enjoying this.”

  I stood there. I felt limp. I had never told that to anyone. Stepping up to the door I leaned my forehead against the wood, closed my eyes—and Marie suddenly opened the door. I staggered backwards, my hands tented over my nose and mouth.

  “Oh my God, are you all right?” she said, following me.

  “I don’t know.” I could feel blood.

  “Let me see.”

  I took my hands away.

  She covered her nose and mouth.

  I covered mine again.

  We stood there like that, looking at one another for a long time.

  *

  So now I’ve got this permanent little bump on the bridge of my nose. I kind of like it. So does Marie. Sometimes when we’re lying in bed together she traces her finger over the place and we talk about that goofy night, years ago now.

  Since then, I’ve discovered Marie cries at quite a variety of things, but still not at movies, no matter how sad or even poignant.

  I don’t cry at them like I used to. They’re just movies, after all. But I have to say, Brief Encounter was on TV again recently and it still got to me. Silly hat or not, Celia Johnson is so good in that.