‘Everything has changed. Everything.’
After I remarked that the truth was occasionally rather extraordinary he then said:
‘When I showed you the apartment today this crazy idea was rattling around my head: Laura and I will move here together. Of course I didn’t dare articulate such a thought at the time. Because I had no idea then if you were feeling what I was feeling. And because—’
‘I’ll move to Boston with you tomorrow,’ I heard myself saying. As soon as that statement was out of my mouth I didn’t have a stab of regret. Or a moment thereafter when I thought: Are you insane, uttering such a drastic, life-altering comment like that . . . especially as you have only known this man a little more than twenty-four hours?
But the truth was, I now possessed the sort of certainty that I had never thought possible. This certainty was as bemusing as it was absolute. Just as the rational side of my brain was telling me: You are convincing yourself of a future after just a day together. But this ultra-cautious voice was trumped by an equally logical voice, reminding me: What Richard said is veracity itself – everything has changed.
I’ll move to Boston with you tomorrow.
That wasn’t wishful thinking. That was a declaration.
Love.
We were both so apprehensive at first. Once in bed, desire was initially checkmated by fear. Richard was so apologetic, clearly mortified. I didn’t mouth all the usual clichés – It happens to all men at some juncture . . . the less you think about it the more likely it will happen. I just kissed him deeply and told him I loved him. And he told me he loved me. And we talked, in hushed voices, lying face to face, about how lonely life had been for both of us and how what we both wanted was a chance. A chance at love. Real love. It might not be the answer to all of life’s complexities, all the struggles within. But it would be . . . a chance. And what I have so longed for, what Richard said he has so yearned to find. That prospect of possibility. Of a happier life.
Then we began to kiss even more deeply and passionately. Within moments he was inside me, fear having been banished. The sense of completeness was so immense. I had only slept with two men prior to Richard. I so remember the initial virginal awkwardness with Eric, and the way Dan and myself were, at first, clumsy – and how our sex life settled into a pleasant routine, but largely devoid of anything approaching real passion, real intimacy. But once Richard had entered me, once we began to move together – our bodies immediately, instinctively, attuned to what became, at once, a shared rhythm – the delirious sensuality of it all was heightened by an even more overwhelming sense of fusion.
Love.
I buried my face in his shoulder the first time I climaxed. And was astounded when I climaxed again just a few minutes later. Richard was determined not to rush things (this too was new for me) – and held off for such a long time. And when he came the shudder that ran through him, through us, was accompanied by another declaration of love.
Love.
When we finally got out of bed, slipping into the hotel bathrobes, it was late. Dinner was needed. We ordered room service. Richard also asked for a bottle of champagne. Part of me wanted to say, ‘Isn’t this all costing a small fortune?’ Almost reading my mind, Richard tempered this with the comment:
‘You have to toast a new life with champagne.’
Over dinner we couldn’t stop talking. About how we had both thought such happiness was beyond our reach, outside of the lives we were living.
‘We are all so absurd, aren’t we?’ I told Richard. ‘Always slouching towards some sort of Bethlehem where we hope to find a measure of peace within which we can act out our lives.’
‘“Slouching towards Bethlehem”. My dream was to fall in love with a woman who could quote Yeats. My dream came true.’
‘And you have fulfilled every dream imaginable for me.’
‘Even if you have no idea how I live my life? As in, I could be a complete slob.’
‘And so could I.’
‘I tend to doubt that,’ he said.
‘You’re right about that. And I would be very surprised to learn that you are all over the place when it comes to things domestic.’
‘Would that be a deal breaker for you?’
‘Nothing would change my love for you.’
‘That’s a dangerous statement. I mean, say I was part of some strange religious cult? Or if I was an amateur taxidermist?’
‘Your imaginative flair is impressive. But even if you were stuffing gerbils in your spare time—’
‘Gerbils?’ I said, laughing. ‘Why gerbils?’
‘They’ve always struck me as a profoundly useless rodent.’
‘And therefore worthy of taxidermy?’
‘So you do have a flair for the absurd.’
‘Like you, sir. Just like you.’
And he leaned over and kissed me.
We ate the dinner. We drank the champagne. We talked, talked, talked. I learned all about his childhood. How his father insisted on him joining the Boy Scouts and forced him to attend a military boarding school for two years – a hateful experience – and how he had a nervous breakdown after a few months and was sent home.
‘This is something I never discussed with anyone – and even never told Muriel about it . . . I was so ashamed of it all. But that place – it was like a prison camp. I begged my mother to talk Dad out of sending me there – that is, after my father refused to entertain my pleas that I was not military school material. But my mother never went against Dad’s rule of law. “You’ll just have to get through it,” was her statement to me. But I knew I simply wouldn’t get through it. Before Christmas rolled around, the endless drill formations and six a.m. reveries and the hazing and mean-spiritedness of the place finally did my head in. I was found by one of my fellow cadets, crying uncontrollably in a bathroom. Instead of getting help he ran off and got six other cadets. They gathered around me and began to taunt me. Calling me a sissy, a baby, all that wonderful macho American stuff which idiots in packs perpetrate against anyone who is perceived to be different or weak.’
‘You’re hardly a weak man,’ I said.
‘The truth is, I have always been weak when it has come to the voice of authority. Had I not been weak I would have stayed with Sarah. Had I not been weak I would have quit my father’s business years ago. Had I not been weak I would have left Muriel . . .’
‘But you’re leaving her now. And you were leaving her even before I came into your life. Just as you started writing again – and you got the first new story you wrote in years published. All that sounds anything but weak to me.’
‘But I hate the fact that I was so compliant for years.’
‘You don’t think I hate myself for being equally acquiescing – especially when it came to making decisions that were counter-intuitive? Trust me, I am the poster girl for weakness and self-sabotage.’
‘But look at how you got your son through his breakdown. God knows I wish I’d had a parent like you when I went under.’
‘How did you get yourself out of it?’
‘I had no choice but to somehow shake it off. My father threatened me with a psychiatric hospital if I didn’t, as he put it, “snap out of it”. But we were talking about your strength. And you conveniently changed the subject.’
‘I still don’t think myself strong, forceful.’
‘You’ve never trusted yourself, right?’
‘What makes you say that?’ I asked, a little unnerved by the accuracy of this observation.
‘It takes a self-doubter to know a self-doubter. And I have wasted so much energy, so many years, thanks to my own profound lack of self-assurance, of any belief whatsoever in my ability. Just like you.’
‘But, hang on, at least you have a creative talent. Whereas I have nothing like that. I can shoot pictures of people’s insides, and that’s about it.’
‘And now I really do think you are engaging in the worst form of self-deprecation. You have hinted how al
l the radiologists you work with so rate you. And how you can usually work out a diagnosis at first sight of a pattern or shadow on a scan or X-ray.’
‘That’s just a certain technical know-how.’
‘No, sorry, that’s a talent. And it’s a talent that very few people possess. And one which you should salute yourself for having.’
‘It’s hardly creative.’
‘Define “creative”.’
‘Inventive, imaginative, visionary, inspired, talented, accomplished, artistic . . .’
‘And how about original, ingenious, resourceful, clever, adept, adroit, skilled? You don’t think yourself adept, adroit, skilled?’
I just shrugged.
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”,’ he said. ‘You are creative at your work.’
‘I’ve not always been adept, adroit, skilled.’
‘I’m also sure you’ve never been told enough just how extraordinary you are.’
‘There’s a reason I’m in this room with you. There’s a reason I did something tonight I never thought I could actually do – sleep with another man while still married. The fact that I have fallen in love with you . . . that is to do with you, not my husband. But had there been a marriage still there – a sense of shared destiny, of love and support, of proper intimacy, everything you mentioned before – I would not be here. But I am so happy to be here. Because I never thought this possible for me. Because you too are extraordinary.’
‘Extraordinary? Me?’ He shook his head. ‘I am vin ordinaire. All right, I know a thing or two about words. I have written two published works of very short fiction. And I still like to lose myself in the Republic of Letters. But beyond that . . . I am a fifty-five-year-old man who sells insurance.’
‘And you accuse me of self-abasement? You are an amazing conversationalist. You have a fantastic take on what can be broadly described as life and art. You have passion – which, trust me, is something you don’t bump into every day. And that passion . . . well, the biggest surprise was . . .’
Restraint and modesty suddenly took charge of my vocal cords. But, to my surprise, I shook them off and said, in a near-whisper:
‘I have never made love like that before.’
Richard reached for my hand, entwining his fingers within mine.
‘Nor have I,’ he said. ‘Never.’
‘Pure love.’
‘Yes. Pure love.’
‘And making love when you are madly in love . . .’
‘. . . is sublime.’
‘Kiss me.’
Moments later we were back in bed. This time the passion built so slowly, so acutely, that the final release had me blindsided by its intensity and its immense amorousness. Pure love. With a magnitude and a benevolence that was so intoxicating, so potent, so enabling. As we were clinging to each other afterward Richard whispered:
‘I’m never letting you go. Never.’
‘I’ll hold you to that. Because – and this is another first for me – I actually think everything is possible now.’
‘It is. Absolutely, totally possible.’
‘But when you’ve lived for years without that belief . . .’
‘That’s behind us now.’
And we talked on about how we had both, in our own distinct ways, given up on the notion of change; how romantic hope was a concept we had both dismissed as outside the possibility of future experience; and how now . . .
Everything is possible. Everything.
We finally succumbed to sleep around two in the morning, his arm enfolded around me, the aura of security, of safety, of invulnerability so pronounced. When I woke before dawn and sat up and reached out and stroked the head of my beloved, all the miraculous discombobulation of the last twenty-four hours was overshadowed by one simple, overmastering observation: my life had irrevocably changed.
Richard stirred awake.
‘Hello, my love,’ he whispered.
‘Hello, my love,’ I whispered back.
And he was deep within me moments later.
Afterward we both nodded off again, waking sometime after nine. I stood up, fetched a bathrobe, found a coffee maker in the living room of this vast suite – and returned some minutes later to the bedroom with two cups of freshly brewed Java. Richard was up, having just opened the curtains.
‘I don’t know how you take your coffee,’ I said.
‘Black works.’
‘Great minds think alike . . . and prefer black coffee.’
We kissed. I handed Richard a cup and we both slid back under the covers. The coffee was surprisingly good. Sun was streaming through the window.
‘It looks to be another perfect day,’ I said.
‘And I’m not returning to Maine tonight.’
‘Nor am I,’ I said, immediately considering my work schedule tomorrow – and how there were, as of Thursday, only two scans scheduled for Monday morning. Which meant if I could call my colleague Gertie this afternoon she could probably cover for me in the morning. And as for having to explain to Dan why I wouldn’t be home tonight . . .
No, I didn’t want to consider all that just now. I wanted to think about something I never thought I would be considering two days ago: a future in which happiness played a central role. And Richard – again uncannily reading my thoughts – took my hand in his and said:
‘Let’s talk about how and when we’ll move to Boston.’
A future. The future. Our future.
Love. An actual concrete reality.
Two
PLANS. WE NOW had plans.
Over breakfast, we could not stop talking about the project that was our life together. The more we discussed – throwing out ideas about how this huge change would be put into motion, the practical details, the larger overreaching personal concerns – I couldn’t help but marvel at the way we so easily bounced ideas off each other; the sheer inventive energy that existed between us; the way we were so much on the same emotional page.
Inventive energy. That was what was lacking within me for years. I was diligent at work, diligent at home, always engaged with my children, always trying to put a brave face on things with Dan, and using the world of books as my imaginative escape hatch from the humdrum. But there was never a sense of passionate engagement with life’s larger possibilities.
And now . . .
Plans. We now had definitive plans.
‘Say I call the realtor in around fifteen minutes?’ Richard asked me.
‘Ten o’clock on a Sunday morning? Won’t he mind?’
‘Like all salesmen, he always needs to be closing. The apartment is currently vacant. I know I can get my builder guy in Dorchester to do a structural survey on it this week. All going well we can close on the apartment in about three weeks. A new kitchen, bathroom, paint job, and the stripping and re-staining of the floors . . . that should take about two months tops. So we could probably move in sometime in January, or February at the outside.’
‘Well, I will get onto this medical employment service group I heard about here in Boston,’ I said. ‘They seem to be able to usually find placements for radiographic technicians in the area. Once I have secured something I’ll probably have to give at minimum one month’s notice at the hospital in Damariscotta. They won’t be happy – because there is actually a shortage of technologists in Maine. Still, they’ve had eighteen years of my life. I will be due around five months’ salary when I leave, as I haven’t taken enough vacation time over the years. Imagine that. I only allowed myself two of the three weeks’ vacation I was granted every year. What was I thinking?’
‘We feel guilty about vacations in this country. Something to do with our Puritan roots – and our fear that, while we’re away, someone will come along and replace us. Or, in my case, that the business will go elsewhere.’
‘Well, I am determined in the future to actually take proper vacations and go to interesting places with you. Just as I’d like to propose that I use half of that five months’ back pay
from the hospital to buy furniture for our apartment . . .’
‘Our apartment. I like that. But I can certainly cover the furniture. Anyway, you’ll still have Ben’s college tuition to pay, then Sally will also be starting college next year . . .’
He was right, of course – especially since Dan would now be having to get by on his salary alone, which, at $15K per year after taxes, would barely cover his daily living expenses. At least the house was virtually paid off. If I could get around $85K per year in Boston – that’s the usual salary for technologists at big city hospitals – I could cover Ben and Sally’s day-to-day needs, with their tuitions being covered (as Ben’s was now) by financial aid from the U Maine system. Once I found a job at a Boston area hospital I was pretty sure I could negotiate a four/three working week deal – in which I put in four ten-hour days in a row, then took the next three off. I’d move out of the family home and probably ask Lucy if I could take over the apartment she has over her garage – which she usually rents out, but which is conveniently empty right now, and which she would probably let me have for a reasonable sum from now until next August. Then what I’d propose to Dan would be – Sally spends four days per week with him, then three days with me. Lucy’s apartment has two bedrooms. If Sally was insistent about returning to her room at the family home every night I’d still be around Damariscotta half the week for her.
I mentioned all this to Richard – and also noted that, per usual, my head was focussed on practicalities.
‘But a momentous change like this involves vast numbers of practicalities,’ he said. ‘And naturally you are going to have to be back and forth to Maine for Sally and to see Ben. Just as I will need to find an apartment in Bath. I’ll have to be there for business a few days a week. In fact, if Sally decides she doesn’t want to spend half the time at your apartment, you can stay in my new place in Bath.’
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