Searching for the One

by Gabriella Murray

  CHAPTER 9

  Dear Sunflower 101,

  You are a rare woman - that much is absolutely clear. Are you looking for a life's mate, or simply someone to pass the time with? Either would be acceptable. Having lived through many unexpected troubles, losses, and peculiar encounters (both personally and professionally), finally, I have become a flexible man.

  Even if you do not have the time to actually meet me right now, please do not cut me out of your heart. Answer me. Just a word or two will keep me happy. I am confident, Sunflower that when you finally get to know me, you'll find the trouble you take to mail a letter or two to be well worth your while.

  Patiently,

  Greg

  Sara decided to take time to think everything over. She spent more time in the shed, kneading the clay into shapes of gigantic tropical flowers, on the verge of blooming. She took photographs of them and put them on the walls. She spent extra time with Chloe, going over the last of her college applications, especially helping her with the essay on how she saw the purpose of her life. For each college Chloe applied to, she wrote something different.

  That Sunday afternoon Sara and Chloe were sitting in the living room, the applications piled high on the square wooden coffee table. Mugs filled with hot chocolate sat in front of them both. Although the day was chilly, the winter sun streamed in through the windows, throwing heartening shadows across the ivory walls. Matt and Abel were in the den watching an old movie and eating crackers, something they used to do with their father on cold Sunday afternoons. Despite all their familiar activities, Sara couldn't help feeling an emptiness that hung over them all.

  "There are lots of purposes in life," Chloe said as they went over the last essay, describing her desire to be a journalist with a complete and non-biased view. "I want to see the whole picture," she said, "from everybody's point of view."

  "That's quite an intention," said Sara.

  "I can do it," Chloe replied.

  "I'm sure you can."

  Chloe had applied to ten schools, all within five hours from home. On each she'd written she was thinking of journalism as her major. On the last one, though, she said she would minor in psychology, to help figure her family out.

  "You can't figure a family out," Sara said. "Each one is different - they keep changing, can't be stuffed into a category. You have to experience a family for yourself, give it room to grow."

  "You're wrong." Chloe'd said emphatically. "There are exact reasons why families fall apart."

  Sara's stomach turned.

  "Alicia always wants everything from dad right away - money, attention. He used to give her whatever she wanted, the minute she asked. If he didn't, she'd pout all afternoon. Abel and I call her the slithery eel. If he gives something to us first, she gives us slimy looks all day. I'm sorry that he's got her."

  "We all get what we deserve," Sara said.

  "What a mean thing to say."

  "Not mean, truthful."

  Sara felt no sympathy for Melvin. She thought how afraid she'd always been to ask him for anything, how burdened he seemed by anything he gave, silently demanding so much in return.

  "It's true," Sara emphasized to Chloe. "Each person gets what they deserve and what they're attracted to."

  "How about you then? What are you attracted to? Nuts and maniacs. Is that what you deserve?"

  "Maybe I do," Sara broke into a laugh. Chloe joined in and soon they were both laughing loudly. Abel and Matt walked into the room to see what was so funny, and though they didn't know the joke, soon all laughed together, as they used to - the roll of all their laughter lifting the weight of the lonely afternoon.

  Sara took a deep breath. It tasted of the winter pine leaves she'd filled the vases in the house with. She realized that, with all her snappy wisdom, Chloe was still a young girl, wanting a strong mother, needing to know a rock was waiting for her at home that she could always lean on. Someone she could be proud of.

  That evening, Sara went to her room, took out the letters and started reading again. It was time for another go around. She wanted to created a stable world for Chloe to come back to. She also wanted her daughter to see her as courageous, able to find a wonderful love of her own.

  Dear Sunflower 101,

  I am in my early fifties, 6 feet tall and an orthodontist. My patients think I'm the best. Once they find me they never switch to another orthodontist.

  I enjoy dinner, dancing (to the oldies), movies and strolling through parks that are safe. I'm considered a good dancer, a hopeless romantic and a terrific catch. I'm monogamous by nature and you need not be concerned about drugs or alcohol. I have two grown daughters who are self sufficient and more attached to their mother than to me.

  I hope to hear from you very shortly, as time is not on our side.

  Nathan

  Sara was enjoying the letter until the last sentence - time is not on our side. What did he mean by that? Did he sense illness, or death? And why parks that were safe? An odd detail. Could a man like this protect her in a time of danger? Sara decided to put him in the Maybe pile and go on to the next.

  Dear Sunflower 101

  I'm not writing and saying I'm Mr. Wonderful. But I'm certainly a cut above the rest. Yes, I enjoy life, and at forty nine my life could be better - but it could be a whole lot worse too.

  I spend a great deal of time travelling alone, as I can't find anyone to travel where I want to go. This is a sore point for me. Do you like travelling? Where do you go? Do you go alone too?

  I don't ski, and do not smoke. That should be a plus. I enjoy the company of a good woman, good food and a good bottle of wine. (I sell wine for a living - so I have my pick. I have more of a pick of wine than women it seems.) It doesn't take too much to keep me happy, though I am still dreaming of travelling around the world with the right woman at my side.

  I'd love a good, long talk. I can be reached in the evening after 9 p.m. I'd like to have this talk in your living room, preferably. I'm offended when they tell me to meet in a public place! What do they think, I'm Jack the Ripper?

  Although I've been single my whole life, I feel it's time for that to end. Call quickly. I'm waiting.

  (By the way, I am 5'10" with blue eyes, long blonde hair and a sometimes infectious smile.)

  Waiting to hear,

  Alan

  In her living room? After what had happened so far, Sara felt more cautious. She wasn't sure and quickly put Alan in the Maybe column. There had to be someone safer. As she looked at the imposing pile, she suddenly grew tired and wanted to stop. But the thought of Chloe, Matt and Abel pushed her forward.

  Dear Sunflower,

  Are you really your "Personal?" Sorry to ask this, but after a number of disappointing dates, I have not responded for four months. I was really intrigued by your ad though, and so this belated reply.

  I am always complimented for my wit, intelligence, good looks and sincerity. However, I find it difficult to appreciate women who feel that exaggeration (gross) is the only way to attract above average men. Of course, they have their own "horror stories" about some of the men they've met. I am much too honest and sensitive to play harmful "games".

  Although I try to be modest, I may as well tell you, I'm a world famous photographer who has had many exhibitions of his work -photographs of women abandoned in different continents. My work makes a plea for them, calling for help.

  Briefly, I am 6', 165 lbs., 55, dark hair, hazel eyes, long divorced, no children. I am thoughtful and stimulating to talk to.

  Sorry, but the enclosed photo is not recent and poorly reproduced. Fortunately, my appearance has always been an asset. If you are interested in a secure, entertaining man, please phone.

  Sincerely,

  Michael J.

  Sara put Michael J. on the Yes column. He sounded interesting and deserved a call even though he photographed abandoned women, something she found just slightly strange.

  She picked up the phone and dialed the number on the
bottom of the page. A machine picked up after only two rings.

  "Hello, this is Michael," a steady voice said. "Don't go away. I'm here waiting to hear from you, only you can't speak to me right now. Leave a brief message, your name and number, and I'll call back within twenty four hours. Time me and see. Thanks for calling." Then there was an exceptionally long beep.

  As she had already called, Sara felt compelled to say something to the steady voice, though the message was jarring.

  "Hello, Michael, this is Sara. You answered my ad. Yes, I represented myself fairly and would like to speak to you in person. Here is my number. Please call."

  She left her number and hung up fast, perspiring and slightly sorry she'd said anything at all. His message left her feeling edgy, but the worst that could happen was that they'd talk.

  Sara quickly put his letter on the bottom of the Yes pile, grabbing the next one. This one seemed like more fun.

  Dear Sunflower,

  I AM NOT: MARRIED * A SMOKER * WEALTHY (BUT I'M CERTAINLY NOT IN THE LOWER, MIDDLE CLASS) * A JOGGER * FAT * GAY * INTO POLYESTER * AN OPERA/BALLET AFICIONADO * A TYPIST * IN JAIL * ESCAPED THEREFROM * AFFLICTED WITH HERPES OR AIDS * PRETENTIOUS * ATTRACTED TO WOMEN WHO: ARE SO INSECURE THAT THEY HIDE BEHIND ERA MILITANCY; DESCRIBE THEMSELVES AS "FOXY"; AND/OR THINK THAT "SHARING" MEANS I SHARE WITH THEM, BUT SANS RECIPROCITY * A REGULAR CHURCHGOER * INTO DRUGS * A HYPOCRITE * BILINGUAL * INTENDING TO SIRE MORE CHILDREN * A NIGHT CLUBBER * A BRIDGE PLAYER * A WIMP * A RACETRACK DEVOTEE * FREQUENTLY MISTAKEN FOR ROCK HUDSON * INHIBITED * DESPERATE FOR A DATE.

  I AM: DIVORCED (7 YEARS), AGE 56, (OFTEN MISTAKEN FOR 40),SOMETIMES REFERRED TO AS THAT ATTRACTIVE MAN. A TENNIS ENTHUSIAST, TOLD I HAVE "GREAT SKIN", 6'l TALL, PRECISE, A COLLEGE GRADUATE, A BUSINESS EXECUTIVE, A SOMEWHAT PRIVATE PERSON, ATTUNED TO CLASSICAL AND SEMI-CLASSICAL MUSIC, REASONABLY WELL TRAVELLED, ALWAYS AFFECTIONATE, NO LONGER STEVE STUD I MIGHT HAVE IMAGINED MYSELF YEARS AGO, CONCERNED ABOUT MANKIND'S RAPE OF THIS PLANET. THE OWNER OF A LARGE, LOVELY HOME, REALISTIC ABOUT THE PRACTICAL LIMITATIONS TO THE CONSTANT JET SETTING SUGGESTED BY SOME OF THE PERSONAL ADS, WONDERING IF YOU ARE ONE OF THE EXCEPTIONAL WOMEN WHO IS GENUINE ENOUGH TO RELATE TO ALL. (OR, CERTAINLY MOST OF THE ABOVE).

  Charles,

  Charmed, Sara placed this letter on top of the Yes pile and immediately picked up the phone.

  To her amazement, someone actually answered.

  "Yes?" a cheerful, male voice answered.

  Sara gulped.

  "Who's there?"

  "Sara."

  "Well, who are you?" he actually seemed delighted.

  Sara was pleased. "You answered my ad."

  "You mean I've a live one on the phone?"

  Sara laughed. "I liked what you wrote."

  "Thank you, my dear. I appreciate. Now, tell me about you."

  "Divorced - a potter."

  "Splendid. I haven't spoken to an artist yet."

  Sara liked being called an artist. "Thank you."

  "You're most welcome, I'm sure."

  Although it was fun speaking to him, neither of them said much else about themselves. They bantered about for a while, as if hitting a few tennis balls.

  "And are you a tennis player?" he queried.

  "Sorry about that one."

  He laughed. "It's all right. You sound fine. Let's meet for coffee tomorrow night."

  Sara felt swept up for a second. She paused. "Fine."

  "Any idea where?" he asked.

  "There's a diner near me," Sara answered. "The Swan."

  Victorious, Sara hung up the phone and wrote on her wall calendar: Coffee with Charles - at The Swan!

  The next morning when Cynthia called, Sara mentioned she had a date that night.

  "Good for you," Cynthia said. "The secret is to keep going, no matter how bad some of them are. The minute you stop, it's over. You're dead. It's impossible to get started again. Look at Iris, she's fizzled out. Couldn't go one more time. She's back with Harry."

  "Oh no," Sara said.

  "It's too much effort for her now."

  The image of Iris back with Harry, whom she never cared for, and who treated her poorly, saddened Sara. She knew this happened to many women. They stopped at a point of exhaustion, then took what they could get. The fear of growing old alone was more than most could bear.

  "I'm really sorry to hear that," Sara said.

  "Me, too," Cynthia said. "As for me, I'm in heaven. Don't tell Greta, but I've met someone new."

  "Really?"

  "Yup. Terrific. I'm high as a kite. I met him at the Dead Pan." The Dead Pan was a small jazz club where Cynthia hung out. "He's cute, adorable and his name is Lex. And hold your hat - "

  "What?"

  "Sit down."

  "I'm sitting."

  "He's twenty years younger."

  "My God!"

  "It's fabulous, believe me. He can go all night!"

  Sara gulped. At least Cynthia didn't have any children back home to introduce him to.

  "Twenty years younger - how long can it last?"

  "Plenty long," Cynthia spoke without taking a breath. "He told me he's sick of women's biological clocks, demanding he make them a mother before the third date. The young women see guys as baby making machines. Not me, though. I'm past all that. I'm delicious and safe."

  "Be careful, Cynthia."

  "Forget about that. I was careful my whole life and where did it get me?"

  Sara swallowed hard. She kept wanting to say, how long can it last? but stayed silent. Each had to find out for themselves. Iris had dropped out once again, Wanda found a pen pal in Europe, and Greta was dating older, wealthy men. Cynthia was going to the opposite extreme. Sooner or later they'd find their balance. Or, maybe not? Maybe balance, too, was a thing of the past.

  "You're not judging me, are you Sara?"

  "Of course I'm not judging. I'm just scared."

  "For what?"

  "All of us."

  "Come on, there's nothing to be afraid of. All your little rules are a thing of the past."

  At that moment, the past, present and future intersected for Sara, and that which persisted throughout all of time rose up before her. Eternal laws, hopes and yearnings; she had a vision of great waves of people seeking one another, meeting, finding, parting, losing. Cynthia, Greta, herself, all the single people, seemed tiny dancers on the screen of time.

  "Maybe the past just repeats itself," Sara said.

  "Come on, get with it," Cynthia snapped. "Talk like that will get you nowhere."

  * * * * *

  Sara dressed in hunter green wool slacks and a luxurious, oversized, soft lemon sweater to meet Charles. It was now the end of February, so they arranged to meet inside to avoid the icy winds.

  Sara went in and sat down on the leather benches that lined the wall. Opposite her a huge, round silver clock ticked relentlessly. The place was half empty, so it was easy to see he hadn't arrived. Charles said he'd be there at seven sharp; it was five to seven. Sara sat and watched the hands of the clock make their journey around its face.

  By ten after seven, still no show.

  "It could be the bad weather," said Nick, coming over to keep Sara company. "Where's this winner coming from?"

  "North Westchester."

  "Icy roads!" Nick exclaimed. "Why don't you sit in a booth and start with coffee. When this doll comes, I'll bring him along."

  "I'll wait another ten minutes or so," said Sara.

  Nick smiled and sat down. "What a life," he said. "I was single myself for three years until I met Fred," he confided in a hushed tone, looking at her closely to gauge her reaction.

  Sara was silent for a moment, but then touched he would share that with her. Nick smiled, seeing she was sympathetic.

  "I tell you, it was worth the wait. We're perfect for each other. I'm actually happy. I got such a great guy. . . So will you."

  "Thanks, Nick."

  "You got guts, kid," he tapped her shoulder. "Keep it up. Pretty soon the r
ight one's got to come. And when he does, I'll be the first to meet him - since, for some reason, you seem to love The Swan."

  By seven thirty neither the right nor wrong person had arrived. Sara wondered if something happened to Charles on an icy road.

  "Go sit in the booth," Nick urged, as it got later. "I'll bring you a fabulous Cappuccino with tons of whipped cream, at no extra charge."

  Sara's desire for coffee had subsided.

  "Don't look so glum. It's got to be the weather," he insisted. "They're expecting freezing rain tonight."

  By ten after eight, Sara got up, put her coat on and went to the door. Nick came racing over.

  "I'm sorry, honey," he said. "The idiot could have called. This guy doesn't know what he's missing."

  "Neither do I," Sara said.

  When she got home, Chloe was waiting near the front door.

  "You're back early. How'd it go?"

  "It didn't," said Sara. "He never showed."

  "Disgusting," Chloe called. "That comes from not putting the letters in the right columns. I warned you, didn't I? You put too many in the Yes pile. You're too easily swayed. Someone should go over the letters with you."

  "Win some, lose some," Sara said. The last thing she felt like was a lecture from Chloe.

  "But you haven't won any yet, mom," Chloe pouted.

  "When the time comes, honey."

  "I hope so," said Chloe, as Sara stomped upstairs to her bedroom, where the red, blinking light on her answering machine was going strong. Sara flipped it on.

  "Hi, this is Charles," the cool voice intoned. "Terribly sorry about tonight. But after some soul searching, I thought better of it. I mean, coming out on a night like this is silly, isn't it? Radio says icy rain. It made me realize, Westchester - Long Island - is really G.U. Geographically Unsuitable. Sorry, dear."

  Sara checked the time his call came in: A quarter to eight. She picked up the phone and dialed his number. Naturally, he didn't answer. She left a short reply on his cowardly tape:

  "Hi, Charles, this is Sara. I wouldn't say G.U. I'd say you are H.U. for me. Humanly Unsuitable. Go get yourself a brain."