“Men can be pigs.” Kimi sighed.
“When Vicky told me what he’d said, I started blaming myself, you know. I should have paid him more attention. I should have turned those other guys away and danced with him. At the least, I should have realized how angry he felt.”
“It’s not your fault. You’re not responsible for his behavior.” Kimi took a swig of Coke.
“There is this motivational film,” she continued, “You Pack Your Own Parachute. I saw it once at a workshop. When you are planning to jump out of an airplane, the guy said, you have to pack your own parachute, so you are responsible for whether it opens or not.”
“Good incentive for doing it right.” Karen bit into a cookie and savored the flavor. “I love these.”
“Definitely a good incentive.” Kimi nodded. “His point was it’s the same way with your behavior and your feelings. No one else is responsible for what you do and feel. You didn’t cause your guy to become upset. He chose to be upset.”
“Exactly. He could have chosen to assert himself. He could have pushed his way through that mob if he wanted to dance with me.”
“Mob?” Kimi smirked.
“A lot of guys wanted to dance.” Karen looked down, an embarrassed smile on her face.
“That’s my girl.” Kimi nodded approvingly.
“I moped around for a couple of days. Then, I became angry.”
“Way to go.”
“I mean, is the man crazy?” she exclaimed. “Our dinner was not his first at the Mountain Grill. Paul, the owner, greeted him with a bear hug, like a long-lost friend. When he decided to go there for dinner, he knew how they would behave. No one danced every dance with the people they came with. Everyone hugged and kissed after every song. If he’d expected me to be glued to him all evening, he should have pulled in for a Big Mac.”
“This guy must have been something special for you to be so upset. How did you meet?”
Karen looked away. “Our mothers set it up.”
“Your mothers?” Kimi cackled. “Give me strength.”
“They were hoping for marriage. Crazy, right?”
Kimi put her sandwich down, still laughing. “Totally crazy. You know how I feel about marriage…” She took a drink of Coke. “Maybe it’s because I’m an attorney and I see marriages as they are coming apart, but, honestly, I think it should be avoided like a rabid dog. It chews you up emotionally, financially, psychologically. I see no upside.”
“You’re cynical. My parents—”
“I’m not saying every married person is miserable, but intimate relationships can easily be handled without the complications of marriage.”
Kimi took a bite of her sandwich.
“Say you’re madly in love, head-over-heels in love, desperately in love. How exactly does marriage help anything? Tell me.”
“You can live together. You can…” Karen held her hands up, helplessly. “I don’t know.”
Kimi laughed.
“Look, I see marriage as a contract. Two people make an agreement, and we call the agreement ‘marriage.’ Each party has certain expectations, contractual obligations, if you will. So far as the state is concerned, you agree to four things. You agree to live together, not to abuse the other party, to sleep with no one except the other party, and not to make life unbearable, particularly by abusing alcohol or drugs.” She tapped on the bench, emphasizing each item.
“Should one person not live up to his obligations, should he break the agreement, the other person has the right to terminate the contract. We call that divorce.”
“Okay.” Karen was not sure where Kimi was leading.
“Sounds pretty straightforward, right?” Kimi shook her head. “No way. Problems arise because so little is actually written down. The parties have expectations that go far beyond the letter of the law, and these may not even be verbalized. The disposition of assets is generally undefined. Whether the agreement has actually been broken may be a matter for dispute. Emotions get in the way.” She threw her hands up, helplessly. “Divorce is an unholy mess.”
“So, what do you suggest instead?”
“If I want to live with a guy, fine. We can draw up a contract. Keep our own property, manage our own money. Specify who pays for what, who does the cooking, what happens to the cat if we split.”
“But things change,” Karen protested. “You buy a house. You buy a car. You…”
“If we make a joint purchase, we can have an ad hoc agreement to cover its disposition. Much simpler, more straightforward. Fewer hurt feelings.”
“How very romantic.” Karen laughed.
“That’s the real problem,” Kimi exclaimed, shaking a finger at Karen. “People believe ‘love conquers all.’ They fall in love and they dash for the altar, but they don’t consider the implications.”
“Wait until you fall in love.”
Kimi looked offended. “I’ve been in love,” she exclaimed, “but I’ve not thought it to be a sufficient basis for a simple contract, much less the hassle of marriage.” She took another bite of her sandwich, then waved it as she continued to speak.
“Let’s take love out of the equation. If for some reason you feel you must get married, whether the reason is religion, money, sex, children, whatever, find someone you can live with, someone who won’t drive you crazy, define the terms, and get on with it.”
“You sound like my mother,” Karen said.
“Smart woman. Listen to her.”
Karen tossed a bit of bread to a pigeon that was strutting past. The bird swerved toward the food and gobbled it. As she tossed a second piece, another pigeon landed nearby.
Karen laughed. “Oops.”
Soon an entire flock had assembled and the birds began to fight over the bread, reminding her of the guys at the Grill angling to dance with her. She blocked that image from her mind, and she turned back to Kimi.
“I’ll think about it.” She ate the last of her sandwich. “You were at the gala when the Monet exhibit opened.”
“I was. I saw you facing off with the jerk Will Simpson. You know, his wife is one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet, I cannot understand how she puts up with that man.” Kimi rolled her eyes.
“Maybe they defined the terms of their marriage,” Karen teased.
Kimi nodded. “Could well be. She must get something from him.” She stared at the sky for a moment. “Her family has the money, so that’s not it…Think he’s good in bed?”
“I think he thinks so,” Karen said as they both laughed.
Karen bent over to collect a plastic bag that had fallen on the ground. “Did you notice they guy I was with.”
“Yes…Brown hair and eyes. Good looking.”
“His name is Mark Stuart. He’s a math professor. He’s the guy who dumped me.”
“Is he good in bed?”
“I’ve no idea,” Karen hissed as they both began to laugh. Given her history with Mark, the ways their dates had ended, bed had never been an option, even had they wanted to sleep together. She was beginning to suspect she would never have that type of relationship.
A woman on another bench turned to look.
“I hope she didn’t hear what we were saying.” Karen could feel herself blushing.
They talked for another twenty minutes. Finally, Kimi stood.
“Need to get back to court. Divorce case. My client failed to take the advice I gave her three years ago.”
“What did you tell her to do?”
“Define the terms,” Kimi almost shouted. “Define the terms.”
Karen watched as Kimi strode away, turning to wave as she reached the entrance.
Maybe Karen’s mother and Kimi were right. Maybe it was time to cease hunting for romance and latch on to friendship. Karen thought about Mark.
We could have made it, she thought. If I wasn’t so afraid of commitment, if he wasn’t so…so…whatever it is that he is…we could have been good friends.
She imagined them in h
er kitchen, preparing dinner, in the living room curled on the sofa watching television, walking along the Battery, climbing into bed, dozing off at the end of a long day.
“I could have enjoyed all of that with Mark. If we’d both been willing.”
She shrugged. Didn’t matter now. She’d likely never see Mark Stuart again.
Basketball Game
Mark ventured out, leaving his parents’ house, bending his head against the wind blowing in from the ocean as he pulled his parka tightly around his body. A friend of his, a photographer for the Post and Courier, was ill, and he had given Mark his press pass to the basketball game being played at the military college that night. Mark would have full access to the court and the only stipulation was the newspaper would have first choice to use of any of his photographs.
Mark had spent the afternoon with his father, playing chess, one of his father’s favorite games. His father’s heart attack had been serious, but now, almost three months later, he was recovering nicely. Had Mark not left his good camera, the one with the long lens, locked in his desk at the college, he would have stayed for dinner, sitting by the fire and talking. If anything, his father’s heart attack had taught Mark that life, and family, was too valuable to waste.
The cold wind, the bare trees surrounding his mother’s patio, and the manner in which people scurried through the streets, stepping inside as soon as they reached their destinations, signaled winter had arrived. A chance of snow, a very slight chance, early the next week drove the point home. It was the first week in January, the end of the week, and the new semester would begin on Monday.
He found the camera locked in a desk drawer and set out to return home. It was late afternoon. Dark clouds had moved across the sky and the weak winter sun had no chance to compete. Sunset was an hour off, but streetlights were already shining and store windows were brightly lit. As he walked along King Street, thinking of the hot cocoa he would drink when he reached home, Mark passed Karen’s apartment. He often thought of her when he passed by, and glancing up, he saw light shining through her windows and he wondered what she might be doing on a dark, cold Saturday afternoon.
He walked that way almost every day, since King Street provided the most direct route between his home and the college, and he saw no reason to take a more convoluted path to avoid the possibility of a chance meeting—though it had not happened yet.
In fact, he had seen Karen only once since their final date.
Around nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve, he had joined the throng on the Battery to watch the fireworks display preceding the New Year. The Battery had originally been the site of an artillery battery that had protected the city from attack from the sea. The cannons were long gone, but the seawall still protected the old city from flooding due to storms blowing in from the ocean and rising water from the two rivers which met at the end of the peninsula on which the city was set.
Just before the first rocket was launched above the harbor, he had spotted Karen in the crowd. He had been standing on the Battery, itself, while she had been under a streetlight in the park below the seawall. A tall man stood beside her.
As Mark had watched, the man had placed his hand on Karen’s shoulder and then wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her body against his. In contrast to the other spectators, who were bundled in fleece and heavy parkas, the man was wearing raincoat—a double-breasted trench coat—a wool scarf was draped around his neck, its ends hanging loosely over his shoulders, and a felt hat sat on his head at an angle that cast his face in shadow, all of it lending him the aura of a detective from an old film noire.
At first, Mark had intended to find Karen after the show, just to speak to her, but, since she and the man had seemed to be together, Mark had dismissed the idea. She apparently had moved on, what he should have expected, given her behavior with the guys at the Grill. With her history, she likely had been out with several men in the past three months.
He did notice that, in contrast to her friend, Karen was bundled against the cold and stood with her arms crossed over her chest. He never saw her even touch the man and, while he would occasionally bend to whisper in her ear, Mark never saw Karen respond.
Strange, he had thought, as he turned his attention to the fireworks, hearing the first rocket explode and watching bright stars of silver and gold descend on the harbor.
Later in the evening, as he had sat drinking hot chocolate, watching the antics in Times Square on television, he had decided that he had actually only glanced her way two or three times after realizing she was not alone, so he really had no clue about Karen’s relationship with the man.
He had shrugged. It made no difference.
Arriving at home after retrieving his camera with the long lens, Mark pushed thoughts of Karen from his mind as he checked his camera bag one last time. Two cameras, his regular lens, his long lens, his tripod. That was all he should need tonight.
“You can photograph whatever you want,” his friend had told him, his voice hoarse from congestion. “Keep in mind, though, that my editor won’t be interested in cheerleaders in short skirts. Try to get at least a couple of Todd Graham, number twenty-two. He’s on track to be an All-American. The editor loves pictures of Todd—Todd dribbling down the court, Todd shooting the ball, Todd pumping his fist in the air while the fans cheer in the background. You know the drill.”
Mark knew that several of his images would likely appear on the sports page the next morning, and he would be paid a small amount for each one. He was more interested, though, in the byline Photo by Mark Stuart in small letters under the picture. Whenever he saw it, he felt as excited as a child on Christmas morning.
He zipped the bag closed, settled into his favorite chair with a book, and sipped his cocoa. He had a couple of hours before it was time to leave for the game.
***
Karen crossed her arms as Richard Bailey maneuvered his Porsche through the gates of the military college. She could easily name twenty, no fifty, things she would enjoy more than watching a basketball game at his alma mater tonight.
The cadet standing at guard saluted as they passed. Richard smiled and raised his hand in turn, more of a wave than a salute. He angled to the right, pulling into a parking space in front of the chapel. The parade ground lay in the middle of the campus, with the chapel and library on one side, students’ dormitories—officially termed “barracks” since the students were military cadets—on the other side, and classroom buildings at both ends.
Opening the door, he climbed out of the car and stretched. He stepped onto the parade ground and looked around as he waited for Karen to join him. Then, he led the way toward the fieldhouse where the game would be played.
“I hope you don’t mind walking on the grass rather than the sidewalk,” Richard said as they approached the other side. “When I was a cadet, I was not allowed on the parade ground except for parades.”
“Makes sense,” Karen mumbled, as she tripped on the uneven ground, grabbing Richard’s coat for support.
Richard didn’t seem to notice. “Walking around the field is easily twice as long in both distance and time, but it was an absolute rule. The parade ground must be in pristine condition at all times, or so the Cadet Manual reads. Since I’ve graduated, I take every opportunity to use the field as a shortcut.”
He raised his right foot and smashed his heel into the sod, leaving a divot. He laughed, and Karen shook her head.
Just like a rebellious little boy.
The cold January wind tossed her hair and she caught it with her hand, smoothing it back into place. She pulled her coat tightly around her body. Richard didn’t seem to mind the cold. He was wearing a simple wind breaker.
Men look so dumb when they refuse to dress appropriately, Karen thought. She supposed they felt it to be unmanly to bundle up in the winter.
She peered through the entrance, the sally port, she had heard it called, as they passed one of the barracks. It was a square building, constructe
d around a central quadrangle, and the concrete surface of the quad was painted in large red and white squares, reminding Karen of a checkerboard. A cadet stood guard at the door, snapping to attention and saluting as they passed. Richard chuckled, returning the gesture as he had before.
“Why is the entrance called a sally port?” she asked Richard.
“It’s a military term. ‘Sally forth’ used to be a way of saying ‘charge,’ so the sally port is the door through which the cadets charge forth to confront the enemy.” He laughed. “Today, they are most likely sallying forth to confront some girl in the hope of getting a good…Well, searching for a good time.”
One-track mind, Karen thought.
A cadet hurried past them. He was in uniform—gray trousers, gray shirt, gray jacket, gray field hat, black belt and shoes. He reached the corner and spun to the right, crossing the street and disappearing into the darkness. Richard shook his head.
“See what I mean. Probably on his way to the library over there.” He pointed far off to his right. “But he has to walk all of the way around the field.” He stared in the direction the cadet had gone.
“Must be a knob. A freshman,” he added when Karen frowned. “Freshmen are required to square the corners.”
The fieldhouse was crowded, but they had reserved seats at midcourt. Richard spoke to, shook hands with, and slapped the backs of at least thirty people between the door and their seats. Karen wondered if he really knew everyone he greeted or whether his show of friendliness was simply that, a show.
They found their seats, about halfway up in the lower section, and Richard turned to talk to the guys sitting behind them, friends from school, Karen thought she heard. She slipped off her coat, turning to look at the court.
The teams were warming up. To her right, the cadets were dressed out in light blue uniforms with white trim. At the other end, she spied the opponents, clad in red and gold. As she watched the teams running through their drills, she caught sight of a photographer on the court, snapping pictures.
“Mark Stuart,” she whispered. She had not laid eyes on Mark since he’d carried her into her apartment after their last date.
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