David put his hand on mine and squeezed it.
“I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have told you.”
“I’m a big boy; I can take it.”
“In the long run breaking up with Helge was a positive experience. Years ago do you remember my telling you I was directionless, always waiting for something dramatic to happen in my life to give me a focus?”
“Yes. You said you were like St. Paul on the road to Damascus.”
“Helge was that dramatic event. At first I was so happy – it was almost like reliving Seattle with you - but in the end I was miserable. I remember going to the bank to cash my paycheck right after we broke up and I couldn’t see to endorse the check because of the tears in my eyes. I know this will sound totally nuts, but I wanted to get away; I’d read somewhere about people being needed to pick coffee in Nicaragua, so I went to the Berkeley Co-op, where all the left-wing organizations in the East Bay post their notices, and on the bulletin board was one recruiting volunteers for Nicaragua. The coincidence was extraordinary – this occurred in December and I had no idea what time of the year they harvest coffee in Central America. I picked coffee for three weeks; then I returned with a technical volunteer organization a few months later and used the rest of my vacation doing computer analysis at an agricultural bank in Managua.
“Working in Nicaragua was a fantastic experience that stimulated my interest in the region, so I applied to the master’s degree program in Latin American studies at Berkeley. Carlos agreed with my decision completely, even though going back to school meant giving up my job, and I’ll always be grateful for his support. I graduated last year with departmental honors, applied to the doctoral program in history, and they accepted me. Carlos encouraged me to enroll, but studying for a Ph.D. would have been a huge drain on our finances and I couldn’t ask him to make that sacrifice. I knew we had to save for retirement, so I went back to work for Central Pacific.
“I can’t tell you what getting that degree meant to me. When I finally received my B.A. from Cal, I called my parents to invite them to my graduation. If I’d reached Daddy first, the outcome would have been different, but Mother picked up the phone and, in a bored voice, she told me she wasn’t interested in attending. Her answer hurt me so much I didn’t even go myself. Last year at the ceremony, when I heard Pomp and Circumstance, it seemed as though they were playing the music for me; graduation was the happiest day of my life. I knew so many intelligent, ambitious young women at Washington who went on to graduate school, to Fulbright’s, to study abroad – and I went home in disgrace without a degree. Earning the M.A. was a triumph, a personal best; it expunged the past, it erased the shame. And I never would have gotten the degree if it hadn’t been for the experience with Helge.”
The horse continued its steady clip-clop over the cobblestones and we rode for several minutes in silence.
“What about you? After I left … did you find someone else?”
David shook his head. “The last month you were at the university tore my heart out. I couldn’t have risked going through an experience like that again. It’s strange, but after Arlene was diagnosed with cancer our marriage improved considerably.”
“In what way?”
“In 1976 Arlene developed a persistent cough and started to loose weight. She had a chest x-ray, followed by blood tests and a biopsy, all of which showed a malignant growth. By then the tumor had already metastasized, so there was really no hope, but we – the doctors and I – decided not to tell her the gravity of her condition. She had chemotherapy. After she became ill, Arlene changed a great deal – she needed my support and accepted it gratefully. She wanted to be held and comforted so … well, it was all right. I don’t mean this in a sexual sense; that was over, but it didn’t matter. I’ll always be glad I was there for her. If I’d had a relationship with someone else, the situation would have been impossible for me. Arlene wanted to go to Paris, and after the chemo, when she was feeling better, we took a trip to Europe; we spent three weeks in France and she was very happy. She died four years after the initial diagnosis.”
“Arlene never realized she was dying?”
“Never. I’m not saying that’s the solution for everyone, but it was the right one for her.”
“Then what?”
“Our children were already grown and gone; I sold the house, moved my books to the office, and went to live aboard Sturmvogel.”
“Do you still sail?”
“Yes, but I don’t go beyond Puget Sound any more. I wish ….” He stopped and didn’t complete the sentence. “When Frank comes to Seattle we take the boat out occasionally.”
“How is he?”
“Very happy. He and Kathleen have three children and a fine marriage. Frank’s an associate professor of biochemistry in Eugene now. I talked with him shortly after I received the letter saying you were coming to Seattle; he sends you his greetings. Have you kept in touch with Norma?”
“She’s a full professor at SUNY in Stony Brook. Teaching at a university is the life she always wanted.”
“Still single?”
I laughed. “Of course; there’s no room in Norma’s life for a man.”
“And Rosemary? You mentioned in one of your earliest letters that she married and moved to the Bay Area.”
My eyes filled with tears. “Oh David, Rosemary is dead. She was killed in an automobile accident about ten years ago, together with one of her little boys. Yes, we saw each other frequently after she moved to California. Thanks to the woman at the Student Health Center, Rosie – and everyone else in Blaine Hall - knew why I left the university, and she guessed you were the father. She didn’t approve, but at least she accepted that we loved each other. Rosemary, her husband and three sons were driving up to Washington to spend the Christmas holidays with her family when ….” I choked up and, seeing David’s grief-stricken face, couldn’t continue. We both fell silent, remembering Rosemary’s tinkling laugh, her gifts, all in the past. I wanted to change the subject from Rosemary, and David’s mentioning Frank gave me the opening I was looking for.
“David, speaking of Frank, I need to tell you something, something that’s been on my conscience for years.” I drew a deep breath. “Do you remember what took place – I know you must – between us when I was elected to Phi Beta Kappa?”
“Yes, I remember. Frank told me long ago what really happened in his apartment.”
I was stunned; I struggled to recall the story I’d told David on that terrible day so many years before.
“What did Frank tell you?”
“Kate, we don’t need to go into this.”
“Yes, please, what did he tell you?”
“He said the two of you had sex”. David stopped and searched my eyes. “Is that true?”
I sighed. “Yes.” We were silent for a couple of minutes. “When did he tell you?”
“After Spring Break, when he returned from Spokane, while I was still in the hospital. He talked to a priest when he was home. At this point I don’t remember if the priest told Frank to speak to me or if he felt he had to because he thought I was dying. In any event, he was remorseful and asked me to forgive him. We’ve never mentioned the matter since.”
“Then you know I lied to you … and you’ve known all along.”
“Yes.”
“I realize it’s not an excuse, but I lied because I was afraid of losing you. Is it too late for me to ask for your forgiveness now, to tell you how sorry I am?”
David put both arms around me and hugged me close to him. “All three of us behaved badly. You and I apologized to each other years ago.”
“And what I told you about Helge?”
“Dearest Kate, let it go.”
Our carriage passed by the hotel for the second time just before midnight; David paid the coachman and we took the elevator to the fourth floor. Once inside the room, I turned on the bed lamp, and we looked at each other with embarrassment. When I reached up to loosen David’s tie, he pul
led back slightly; his reaction surprised me, and I dropped my hands. Conscious that David was watching me, I took my clothes off and slipped between the sheets. I expected him to do the same, but he remained standing by the bed, fully dressed, with a forlorn look on his face.
I stretched out my hand to touch him. “Is something wrong?”
David sat down beside me. “When you asked me to spend the night with you I should have invented an excuse to go back to Sturmvogel. Better yet, when you wrote, I should have foreseen this possibility and avoided the shame and the embarrassment altogether and said I was too busy to see you.”
I searched his face, trying to guess the reason for his anguish. “You can’t mean that. I don’t understand.”
David bent over and covered his face with his hands. “Kate” he whispered, “I’ve never wanted to make love to you so much as I do at this moment, but I can’t.”
David’s confession went straight to my heart. I put my arms around him and started to sob.
“I’m terribly sorry. I’m sorry to disappoint you," he said. "Please don’t cry, dear.”
“I’m not cr-crying because I’m disappointed. I’m … you were going to sh-shut me out of your life rather than te-tell me this?”
“I don’t feel like a man anymore. You told me about your humiliation. I assure you this is far worse; it goes to the very soul of what I am as a human being. I hate euphemisms - I’m impotent. Yes, I’m ashamed to tell you. I want you to remember me as I was when we were lovers, not the way I am now.”
“We are still lovers. David, don’t lock me out of your heart. What we had years ago was wonderful; if it’s over, I can accept that, but I can’t accept your rejection. I love you for your kindness, your humor, your understanding, your intelligence, and because you love me. None of that has changed.” I put his face between my hands and brought my lips to his. “Dearest David, there’s no reason for you to be ashamed. You’re still you – the man I’ve loved all my life.”
I started to unbutton his shirt and this time he didn’t stop me. David turned out the light. He was right about the sex, but we were as intimate and tender as two people could possibly be.
I dozed for a while, and when I awakened, David was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, with his hands clasped behind his head.
“You’re not asleep? It must be two o’clock.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
I propped myself up on one elbow and began running my fingers through the hair on his chest.
“My furry beast. You know, one of the first things I noticed about you when you took me to the HUB for coffee was how the hair on your wrist peeked out from the edge of your cuff. I couldn’t help wondering about the rest of you. It was such a turn on, but I was so naïve I couldn’t put a name to what I was feeling.”
“Do you really prefer me this way? I was thinking of waxing my chest.”
Knowing he was joking, I started to laugh. “I don’t find hairless men even remotely attractive; they’re like Ken dolls, so … androgynous. Speaking of fur, though, there’s one part of you which needs improving.” I ran my finger along his eyebrows.
“Impossible. You always used to tell me how perfect I am.”
“Well you are, but David, with those eyebrows you’re turning into a sheepdog. Before long you’ll be walking into walls. Here, let me trim them for you.”
I got out of bed, turned on the light, found my cosmetics case and took out a pair of manicuring scissors. Sitting astride David, I bent over him and started to snip the unruly hairs. He raised his head and tried to touch my breast with his tongue.
“Behave. Keep your eyes shut.”
“You know what this reminds me of?”
“What?”
“When you wore your hair long and you used to lie on top of me – in a rather more intimate fashion than this – and spread your hair around us. It was like being in a tent.” David reached up and took the scissors from me. “That’s enough, remember Samson.”
“Delilah cut the hair on his head, not his eyebrows.”
“With me it’s eyebrows. I’ll be completely emasculated if you don’t quit.”
He took my hand and kissed it.
“Are you happy, David?”
“At this moment or in general?”
“Both.”
“I’d be less than truthful if I didn’t admit that seeing you again has been an emotional jolt and more than a little stressful, but yes, Kate, at this moment I couldn’t be happier or, in the words of a dear friend, I’m content. In general … if you’d asked me two days ago, I would have said I’m not unhappy.”
“And now?”
“Now … I realize how empty my life is … without you.”
I lay down beside him. “Do you think we can salvage something from the past?”
“Yes, but only if we have a future; otherwise what’s the point?”
“What kind of future were you envisioning?”
“For the two of us?”
“Yes.”
He turned to look at me. “Will you close out your life in the Bay Area and come to live with me here, in Seattle? You can work in data processing, get that Ph.D. in history, pursue whatever goal you set.”
“David, you know I can’t leave Carlos any more than you could have left Arlene. My children would never forgive me. And Carlos … he deserves better than that. I just can’t purchase my happiness at their expense. It’s too late. ‘The time is out of joint,’ as Shakespeare said.”
I think David expected this would be my response. He sighed and put his arm around me.
“I saw a movie once,” I began, “in which the hero’s wife dies before he does. Years later, at the end of his life, he sees her running toward him. That’s how the movie ends – with the two lovers running to embrace each other. I don’t believe in an afterlife any more than you do, but I’d like to think that’s how it will be for us.”
“I was hoping for a more corporeal future than that."
“Do you have something in mind – other than what you just suggested?”
He didn’t answer my question. “After our son was born, I took for granted you’d return to the university – to me; it never occurred to me you wouldn’t. When I got your letter saying you were staying in California, I was in shock. Why didn’t you come back?”
“For so many reasons. I was still a minor, so I had to live either at home or in approved housing. I couldn’t return to the dorm … everyone knew. But that’s not it, really. David, I just couldn’t go back to my life at the university, always worrying about becoming pregnant, always saying goodbye to you.”
“We could have been more careful. Half a loaf wasn’t better than none?”
“Not for me. Was it for you?”
“I coped. I think out situations were very different.”
“Exactly. You had a full life. I only had you. I didn’t want to become another Iris Williams. Remember Iris?”
David chuckled. “Of course I remember Iris. They’re living in Hawaii; I had a card from them a few months ago.”
“Them?”
“Can you guess what happened to her?”
I pictured an Iris in her fifties, with her little teeth, gray hair falling over her wrinkled brow, still hunched over a desk in the Biochemistry office, typing at a computer. “No, what?”
“Irving’s wife divorced him. He accepted a position at N.Y.U. and they got married.”
For a long time we lay beside each other in the dark without talking. I thought about Iris and wondered what would have happened to David and me if I hadn’t gotten pregnant. David always said I would leave him eventually, but I knew better. After graduation I would have found a job in an office; I would have rented an apartment and seen David a few nights a week; maybe we would have sailed on Saturdays. Half a loaf, David had called it. Instead, I’d stayed in California, married and had two wonderful children. Even with Carlos’ moodiness and hair-trigger temper, would I have excha
nged the four of us backpacking in Yosemite, traveling in Latin America, graduate school, my job at C.P., for a lonely apartment in Seattle, for some tenuous hope that David and I might eventually share a life together? No, I wouldn’t.
I was reconciled to the past, but not to the prospect of a future without David. In the space of a few hours he had drawn me back into his orbit as surely as the sun changes the course of a passing comet, and the thought that I might soon be saying goodbye to him forever depressed me more than I wanted him to know. I turned away from him and stifled my sobs in a pillow.
David touched me on the shoulder and realized I was crying; he sat up, switched on the lamp, and turned to look at me. “You’re crying; what’s the matter, dear?”
“I can’t bear the thought of leaving you. I don’t know what to do.”
He took a corner of the sheet and gently dried my eyes. “There’s a coffee-maker in the bathroom. I’m going to get up and make us a pot.”
“At this hour?”
“Neither of us can sleep, so a bit of caffeine won’t make any difference. Besides, we need to get this problem resolved before morning.”
While David was in the bathroom, I went to the closet, took out my nightgown, and slipped it over my head; there was a terrycloth bathrobe hanging beside it which I carried to David. “Here. I’m getting cold and thought you might be, too.”
“Is this yours?”
I pointed to the hotel’s logo embroidered on the breast pocket and he slipped his arms through the sleeves; the hem fell to slightly below his knees and the sleeves were too short by nearly a foot. David prepared the coffee and brought it to where I sat curled up on the loveseat, covered by a blanket we’d taken from the bed. He wedged himself beside me and put his arm around my shoulder.
“You made the right decision in 1958.”
“To stay in California?”
“Yes. When I told you how shocked I was you didn’t return to Seattle, I wasn't implying I thought you were wrong. One way or another your leaving me was inevitable, even without the pregnancy; I always knew that. But Kate, this isn’t 1958 and we don’t need to make the same decisions we did then; the old constraints are gone. When I invited you to have dinner with me this evening, I had no idea how our seeing each other would play out, and I didn’t come here with any preconceptions, or any agenda, but while you were sleeping a few things occurred to me.
Letters To My Mother Page 30