Wait For Me Jack

by Addison Jones

  Jack spotted someone he knew, who waved as if he was glad to see him. He made his way over to this man, and it turned out his whole ferry gang had made it on to this ferry too. Someone had bought two bottles of Chardonnay from the bar, and soon they were passing bottles around – no glasses – and laughing hysterically about nothing at all. In fact, the whole ferry had become an uninhibited party. And, oh sweet Jesus, was that Cheryl waving to him from the deck?

  He felt as if he was finally getting into his stride. That up till now he’d been practising how to live, how to respond to things. Now he got it. All you had to do was not care.

  Tears, prayers and the meatloaf mixture sat on the kitchen counter, with the flies having a heyday. This was one of the best days of Jack MacAlister’s late middle-aged life, and Milly was rehearsing her eulogy for him. Also, choosing what to wear. Her black linen with the narrow black belt? Her brown tweed two-piece, if it was a cold day. With that cream silk blouse. Where was that blouse? Been ages since she’d seen it. She turned off the television, to go look for it. He’d better not have given it to Goodwill. Gosh darn that man for always getting rid of her stuff.

  Four Years Earlier

  Glen Miller Died Too

  May 2nd, 1985, San Miguel, Marin County

  2:10pm

  At twenty-five, even forty, Jack regarded people in their sixties as an inferior race. Getting that old was just plain rude, he often joked. Loose skin around the ear lobes was never going to happen to him, Goddammit it.

  But he must have taken his eye off the ball a few minutes, because: bingo! Jack MacAlister was now fiftyfuckingnine, and life expectancy for an American man was now seventy-four. That was sixteen more years. Christ. Without his glasses, in the bedroom mirror lit only by the flattering low lamp, he was still okay. Just. When he was out on his bike, heading down the grade towards China Camp with the bay sparkling and the warm eucalyptus air rushing around him like…like a beautiful sexy madness (he’d been reading Kerouac again), well then, he was no age at all. Just his own self, the self he’d been since he could remember. Jacko MacAlister. And the whole world was as drunk on its own beauty and stupidity as it’d always been. But when he caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror while driving on a sunny day – well! Fuck off, he told his reflection. And usually refused to glance again, preferring the side mirror. Often drove faster in this mood. Passed on curves. Death, you asshole, come get me!

  Then, as if mortality wasn’t already breathing its nasty breath down his neck, Elisabeth, who was thirty-three, announced she was six months pregnant and two days later his mother fell, broke her hip and within days developed pneumonia.

  Perfect.

  Elisabeth was not married, of course, nothing as sensible as that. And his widowed mother – silly old woman! What was she doing, still walking around outside at her age, with her joints? The whole point of her moving closer to them had been to keep her safe, but she hadn’t kept her part of the bargain. What did mother and daughter expect from him now? Endless hospital visits, flowers, money, babysitting? Milly was already the millstoniest wife in the county, with her limp and her lack of driving licence and her refusal to divorce him on the grounds that she still loved him. When was his time going to come? He had a life too, Goddammit, and he was tired of thinking of other people all the time. He was fiftyfuckingnine, for fuck’s sake.

  ‘So, Dad, you’ll be a grandpa. Pretty cool, eh?’

  ‘No one’s calling me grandpa.’

  ‘Okay. What do you want to be called?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ His eyes fell on a mouldy baseball, forgotten under the hedge. He had a soft spot for baseball. It was easy to understand.

  ‘Baseball. He can call me Baseball.’

  ‘It might be a girl.’

  ‘I’ve got to warn you, honey. Kids are a mixed blessing.’

  ‘Not exactly what I want to hear at this stage, Dad.’

  ‘Break your heart, kids.’

  He sighed dramatically. She had a biology degree from Cal. She used to talk about becoming a doctor. He’d always visualised her marrying and raising a family in a house on the Bay, maybe in Tiburon or leafy Ross. Last he heard, she didn’t even have a boyfriend, just rented a room on Miracle Mile and worked in Peet’s. But he’d always enjoyed confiding in Elizabeth because, while her choices puzzled him, he sensed a rapport with her. She didn’t judge. If they’d been drinking, he became expansive and told her all his secrets. It felt great. Though Milly felt excluded and once said, ‘Goodness sake, Jack!’ when he told her he’d more in common with Elisabeth than he did with her. ‘Why are you surprised?’ he’d asked. ‘We are blood related, after all. You and I are merely married.’

  Though now things were shifting. Pregnancy seemed to take Elisabeth over. Overnight, she lost her edgy, intelligent look. He could see the matronly, literal-minded woman she would be become, just like he could sometimes see the cranky old woman Milly would become. Especially first thing in the morning, when her face was wrinkled from sleeping on her side. Those pillow lines used to last a minute – now sometimes she kept them till lunch. He supposed his face was going the same way. His rear-view mirror had certainly given him a shock earlier today.

  They went to the hospital to visit his mother. Milly, Jack, and pregnant unmarried Elisabeth. She brought a Hallmark Get Well card, a Chicken Soup novel, and some home-made oatmeal cookies. Jack and Milly agreed on this: nice though the cookies tasted, it was hard not to prefer the old selfish, wise-cracking daughter. They’d not agreed on anything for so long, it was a surprising aphrodisiac. They exchanged vomiting mimicry behind Elisabeth’s back, while she was propping up her grandmother’s pillows and combing her hair.

  ‘There you go, Gran!’ Holding the mirror for her. ‘Prettiest girl in the…ward. I know, will we say a prayer together? You’ll be missing Mass, won’t you. Let’s say the Lord’s Prayer together.’

  Jack and Milly froze, not looking at each other. But when she brought her nicotine-stained fingers together to pray, it was too much.

  ‘What’re you two laughing about?’

  They couldn’t answer. In fact, they could hardly breathe. They wheezed and sprayed spittle and rocked on their chairs.

  ‘I think that’s enough prayer,’ said Grandma MacAlister. ‘Thank you very much. Bit tired now, do you mind, Elisabeth?’ But her mouth was twitching with a bewildered smile too, as if she was thinking: was every family as odd as hers? How wonderful!

  ‘Tell your sister to come home, Jack. It’s time.’

  ‘I phoned her. She said she’d try to come next week.’

  ‘Huh! I’ll believe it when I see it. Ivy hasn’t been home in…I can’t remember how long.’

  ‘She’s never been back, Mom.’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘My sister’s never been back either,’ said Milly.

  ‘What’s wrong with these girls?’ said the old lady. ‘It’s like they’ve slipped into other orbits or something.’

  ‘I blame men,’ said Milly.

  ‘You would,’ said Jack. ‘See you tomorrow, Mom.’

  ‘Sure. If I’m still alive.’

  ‘Stop it, Mom.’

  ‘What? I know it’s a cliché, but life goes just like that!’ She clicked her fingers, once, twice, three times. ‘It’s fast! Short! Over, just when you’re getting the hang of it.’

  And out they trooped, after planting a row of kisses on her thin dry skin. They took Elisabeth home to her purple hippie house, which she shared with five Sufi dancers. They were often silent with each other, Milly and Jack. Often, there was a tension to their silence. A grudging thick silence, like stale hard fudge. But now, the silence was exquisite. Full of suppressed mirth and more. An unexpected intimacy. Reluctant to drop anything remotely unpleasant into it – they’d both forgotten how to be friendly to each other in the normal way, and the old mechanics of flirtation were long gone – they prolonged the silence. Then:

  ‘Can we go to Bolinas Beach on t
he way home?’

  ‘Yeah. Great idea,’ said Jack instantly, and signalled to take the coastal route. It was not on the way home at all, but he didn’t point that out.

  It was not a beautiful day. The sky was hazy, the light flat. The world looked jaded. They entered the town, passed the church where they got married, the café selling oysters in the shell, Smiley’s Bar, weather-beaten houses and sheds. No traffic at all today. Once at the beach, parked directly facing the surf, Jack pulled on the handbrake and they both sighed at the same time. Because there it still was. That old Pacific. Serious, freezing, noisy. Often impatient, churning, but right now ebbing, and the smaller waves lapped quickly, unevenly. Just beyond the breakers, the rip tide was clearly visible, a fault line of choppy water. The twice daily argument it had with itself. In or out? Make up your mind! Milly rolled her window down.

  ‘Well! Beautiful,’ she declared softly. ‘Wish we’d brought Scout. Truman used to love this beach, remember? Scout’s never even been.’

  ‘Well, he’s only a few months old. Do you want to get out of the car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You do, though. Don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ Eyebrow began to cock.

  ‘Well, come on then. I’ll help you.’

  ‘I can’t walk on sand any more, Jack. You know that.’ Lips pressed together.

  ‘Of course you can. You just don’t want to limp in public. You’re too vain.’

  He got out, walked round to her side and opened her door. This was so out of character for Jack, it was almost as funny as their daughter praying. But Milly did not laugh, or even smile. She sombrely took his hand, and let him lever her out of the car and down to the sand. One step, then another.

  ‘Your mom.’

  ‘Yeah?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s all right, you know.’ More slow steps. Step, stop. Step, stop.

  ‘Is she? She never bought me Levis when I was a kid. Always the J.C. Penny jeans.’

  ‘Levis, Schmevis. That was a hundred years ago. I like her. I can’t walk any further.’ He had one hand clasped under her elbow, the other arm cradling her back.

  ‘Want to sit down for a while? Watch the surfers?’

  She made a scoffing noise. ‘I can’t sit. I’d never get up.’ Saying this aloud brought a large lump to her throat. The forbidden self-pity. They never talked about her increasing disability. Easier for everyone. Then without warning, Jack scooped up his wife in both arms and carried her to the smooth rock near the high-tide mark.

  ‘Stop giggling, for Christ sake, you think this is easy? Stop it, Milly.’

  But she couldn’t stop. Unanticipated joy. She had no defence against this.

  He plonked her down on the rock, embarrassed. Stood with hands on hips, looking out to sea.

  ‘Go!’ she commanded, swallowing her laughter. ‘Have a walk. I am fine here.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Go!’

  He took his shoes and socks off, rolled up his pants to his knees and set off at a brisk pace, letting the waves wash over his feet and rush up his legs. Every footfall proclaiming he was not fiftyfuckingnine. Strange to be beach-walking without Truman wanting a stick to be thrown over and over, then running off with other dogs and peeing on people’s picnics. It was great not having a dog. How had she tricked him into getting a puppy again?

  ‘Thank you, honey,’ she called after him, but he pretended he didn’t hear.

  He felt young now, far younger than he’d felt this morning in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t glance back at his crippled wife perched on the rock, but he had a clear mental picture of her and his heart swelled thinking of it. Out of sight, he always fell for her. Goddammit, if she was still a honey, then so was he. So was he! The beach was almost empty, just some surfers and a few dog walkers. Not a sunbathing picnic kind of day. He decided that when he got home, he’d phone Ernie. Ernie had been a grandfather for years now, and lost both his folks. So had Bernice; they were a pair of orphans. This was immensely cheering. Ernie had paved the damn road. Milly had no parents any more either, but somehow that didn’t help in the same way.

  Watching her husband, Milly felt a swift series of familiar emotions. Attraction (ancient, careworn, hardly recognisable), romantic (in a black comedy way), melancholy (because his posture was slightly stooped and his cowlicks were beginning to grey and thin), and last of all, a raging jealousy. How she yearned to be walking in the surf, just like that. Jack didn’t know how lucky he was. She suffered an attack of deep nostalgia for her own fitness. Ten, no, twelve years ago. To just walk on the beach without effort. To dance, to run, to skip. Oh heavens, it would be bliss to simply take her husband’s hand by the sea. Squeeze it, as an equal. To be a fellow walker.

  They’d had wonderfulness and not even known it, and now here they were. Him striding down the beach, and her bottom freezing on a damp rock. But had the imbalance really started with the accident?

  Jack looked back from the curve of the bay and waved, and she waved brightly back as if they were an ordinary couple. She knew just how they appeared – a confident husband protecting his demure contented wife – and she willed herself to believe it. They were normal and happy. Good heavens to Betsy! He disappeared around the headland and her heart sank. The truth was, she had always been trying to catch up with Jack. The phrase wait up, wait for me! was never far from her lips, yet rarely uttered. An unwritten rule. What wife in her right mind admitted to wanting what a man had? Competitiveness was not feminine, unless it was sisterly rivalry, like Louise and herself, the way they used to argue and shadow each other through life. But there was no denying, there had also been competition between Jack and Milly from the very first day. When he’d asked her out, she’d rejected him, and he strode away pretending that he cared less than two figs. Darn him! It was so complicated. She was jealous of him, of course, while knowing at the same time he must at least have the appearance of superiority – of being the richer, smarter, taller, older, faster, funnier, best-loved spouse – in order for the whole shebang not to come cascading down around their heads. Bless his little boy heart. Bless all their little boy hearts – Sam, Billy, Danny, Donald, August.

  It was all about being a winner, and she wanted to be a winner too. But if she was, she’d lose him. It had been touch and go when her mother died and she inherited a surprisingly large sum – even after she’d sent some to disinherited Louise. A tetchy few months, till she’d planted the idea of a small publishing house. Just a few casual remarks dropped into conversation, not pursued. Oh, honey, that boss of yours is just crazy. You know tons more than him about writers.

  ‘I have a brilliant idea, Milly.’ One morning over coffee, still in their robes. Their teenagers milling around.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking and thinking. You know how City Lights Books is small but still a huge success? And look at Ten Speed Press – just a couple long-haired kids with an idea and the right timing.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘Well, here’s an idea. We use your mother’s money and I quit my job.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘We could start our own business. A better publishing house. I’m sure I could take some of our best writers with me. Everyone’s fed up with the new regime. Golden Gate Freight is too big for its boots now. So high and mighty.’

  Pause. Best to act surprised. Not agree too quickly.

  ‘What would we call it?’

  ‘I’m calling it Dulcinea Press.’

  ‘Dulcinea?’

  ‘Dulcinea. The homely woman Don Quixote thinks is beautiful. I’ve always loved that. Beauty is in the eye.’

  ‘Hm. Where would it be?’

  ‘The city. Some cheap offices going around Columbus Street.’

  ‘Goodness, you have been thinking about it.’

  ‘I’m going to buy a big old oak desk, and have it right by the window. I need a decent view. And everyone in my office is going to be happy because I know exactly
what kind of boss to be. And how to treat writers.’ Then he’d leaned forward and whispered urgently:

  ‘Taking care of writers is my specialty, Milly.’

  She’d noted the shift from our to my, and smiled.

  Women’s Libbers made such a song and dance about everything. Elisabeth had given her The Women’s Room and Milly had hated every page. If a woman agrees to a certain role, then she is not being exploited. The plain facts were: a single woman was the bane of society; a barren woman would go to her grave wishing she’d had kids. And a married woman had to be…be less than a man was, outwardly anyway. Less wealthy, less confident, less ambitious. Preferably less old, less tall. It was not fair, obviously, but it was no good pretending otherwise.

  So, two options. Who would prefer to be a divorcee or an old maid, living alone on a tiny budget in a spotless man-less apartment? No, sir, not Milly MacAlister! But she couldn’t help wishing he would wait for her, and more. She wished with all her heart she was independent. Truly independent, like Jack was. With a career, with respect. With working legs. Her bottom was getting so numb, she shifted a bit and wrapped her arms around herself. Where was that man now? Darn him. What if the tide came in and she was stranded on this rock? Then suddenly he was behind her, wrapping his arms around her too, so her arms were pinned by his arms, which felt young and strong. Thought evaporated. All those wishes for a tad of her husband’s freedom flew away.

  Nothing in this moment told her mind, or his, that they were fifty-nine and fifty-seven years old. His mouth nuzzled her neck, till she swivelled her face and they kissed in a way they’d never kissed before. A kiss that surpassed all those other kisses. Those dozens of first week kisses, those hundreds of early married kisses, those thousands of old married kisses. This was the kiss of two grown-ups who had just met. As if recent events had scraped away their personal history.