The Five Lives of John and Jillian

by Greg Krehbiel

  Oh no. Not a pagan Billy Graham presentation.

  “Wicca emphasizes wholeness. I want to coordinate my actions with my feelings, and vice versa. And it’s not only feelings, but health, ethics — your whole personality.”

  John looked away to avoid giving her a blank stare and struggled to find something decent to say.

  “I guess people get tied up inside by trying to be what they’re not, or by putting on a face,” he said, when he couldn’t bear the silence any longer.

  “Or they get sick,” Jillian added.

  “Would you like some wine?” John asked. He was afraid she was going to ask him what he was feeling, or what kind of a tree he would like to be.

  “Please,” she said.

  John poured two glasses and leaned back on the sofa. He put his arm around Jillian, and she leaned into his chest and rested her head on his shoulder. After a few moments of contented silence, Jillian asked if John was genuinely interested in her ideas about mind and body, or if he was only being polite.

  “Do you want an honest answer?”

  “Of course,” she said quietly.

  “Then I’d have to say that I’m half intrigued, half embarrassed, and half uncertain.”

  “That’s three halves.”

  “That’s the point,” he said. “I’m not all together on this.”

  Jillian was silent for a long moment, then said, “John, I had a fantastic time tonight. It wasn’t a typical ‘date,’ in the bad sense of that word. You know, avoid anything serious and aim for the zipper. You have some interesting things to say, and you listen well. I like that.”

  John didn’t know what to say, so he pulled her in a little closer and continued to sip his wine.

  “Can I choose our next outing?” Jillian said suddenly.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, returning home after a long evening with some friends from work at a downtown watering hole, John sorted the daily junk mail into the trash can while kicking his shoes into the closet, anxious for sleep. As he trashed the last of the credit card applications he noticed the red light on his voice mail. He pressed the play button and continued undressing.

  “John, it’s mom,” came the familiar voice over the recording. “No crisis. I was calling to see how you are. Call back if you get in before eleven o’clock. It’s nothing urgent. Bye.” Beep.

  Ever since his father died when he was in high school, John made sure to set aside time for his mother. After he moved out, he called her regularly. Her call reminded him that he hadn’t spoken with her for over two weeks. He picked up the phone and hit the first speed dial button.

  “Hello,” came a somewhat sleepy voice from the other end.

  “Mom, did I wake you? It’s not eleven yet.”

  “Yes, but it’s okay. I fell asleep in front of a bad movie. Have you ever seen ‘Sword of the Valiant?’”

  “Missed that one.”

  “You didn’t miss anything. Sean Connery’s in it, so I thought it would be worthwhile. Oh well.”

  John hesitated for a moment, not quite sure what to say, when his mother broke in.

  “So who is she?”

  He wanted to deny it, but long experience taught him the futility of the dodge. For whatever crazy reason, mother knew.

  “Her name is Jillian Collins. She’s about my age, fairly pretty, works as a seamstress, and is about the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Sounds good so far. A seamstress? You don’t hear that every day. Who does she work for?”

  “She does contract work: mostly draperies. It’s a pretty neat business, actually.” Explaining Jillian’s business required him to think about Jillian’s job for the first time. As he took the time to talk it through he found himself impressed with her accomplishment. “She has a series of contacts with realtors, interior designers, a few construction companies and that sort of thing, and they give her leads. She makes decent money. Or so she tells me.”

  “Uh huh. And how long have you been seeing her?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Only a few weeks, I guess. We met the weirdest way.” John proceeded to explain the whole story of the radio and the chase in the woods, culminating in the puddle at Jillian’s door. His mother enjoyed hearing of the trials of her proudly self-sufficient son and they both enjoyed a good laugh at his expense.

  “So when do I get to meet her?”

  “It’s not like that, mom, we’re just seeing each other.” And she’s a witch, for heaven’s sake!

  “Now isn’t that wonderful? Here this woman is getting to spend time with my son, and ‘meeting me’ has some kind of karmic significance, like the stroke of doom. I get left out in the cold. What about getting old mom’s input before you get serious? I might know a thing or two about you — just maybe.”

  “You’re right,” John admitted with a reluctant sigh. “But can we work it out so it doesn’t seem like ‘I’m taking you home to see my mother’? That would be awkward.”

  “From your descriptions of Jillian, it sounds like she’d do fine. Maybe she’d like to meet me. You know, a girl can learn a lot about a man from the way he treats his mother.”

  “I’ll try to see if I can work it out without making a big deal, okay?”

  “Okay. Work it out. But Thanksgiving is coming up. I’ll see her then in any event, right? There’s nothing like a deadline to get something done.”

  “I guess I’d forgotten about that. We’ll see how it goes. But it’s getting late, mom, and I’ve got to get to work early tomorrow.”

  After a few more pleasantries John got off the phone and started getting ready for bed. Another thing to worry about.

  The phone rang. John glanced at his watch and wondered what in the world ....

  “Hi, John, it’s Jillian.”

  “Were your ears itching?” Or are you actually a witch?

  “No. Who were you talking to about me?”

  “My mom. She wanted to hear all about you.”

  “I hope you taped the conversation.”

  “Sorry. What’s up?”

  “First things first, John. When am I going to meet your mother?”

  “Did she just call you or something?”

  “We’re all in league against you,” she laughed. “No, of course .... Did you give her my phone number?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t intend to. So, when do I get to meet her?”

  “Anytime you want. She lives in southern Pennsylvania, so it’s a bit of a ride, but not that bad.”

  “Great. Now that that’s settled, I called to kiss you goodnight.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Wouldn’t you like me to kiss you goodnight?”

  “Let’s not get into that subject, okay? I’m trying to relax and get to sleep.”

  Then, with a soft and sexy voice, Jillian said, “Good night,” made a pretty good attempt at a kissing noise, and hung up.

  It was more than a half hour before John could get to sleep.

  Chapter 4: Meeting the Ex

  That Friday morning John checked his email on his smart phone while browsing through the daily paper over a store-bought bran muffin. Jillian had promised directions for the party they were going to that evening, and there they were, right between the emails for discount airfare and the solicitations for vacation packages. He gave the instructions a quick look and decided they were perfect, from the directions to the party to the guidelines on how to dress.

  He added her email to his contact list in gmail, took a last sip of coffee and headed out the door to catch the train.

  * * *

  At precisely 7:05 on Friday evening John drove down the gravel driveway to Jillian’s place. He’d seen her house a few times before, but hadn’t taken the time to give it a detailed look. He spent a moment studying its lines. It looked more like a cottage than a house, and John’s trained eye appreciated the cleverness of the design. It was built with modern materials, but
clearly was meant to imitate an old country house. Huge beams, made to look like dark wood, stood at each of the front corners. The windows were framed with faux wood of the same color and the vinyl siding resembled a light-colored wood. The eaves came down farther than on most houses, giving an appearance not unlike the thatched roof in a Thomas Kinkade painting. He wasn’t certain with the poor light, but the roof itself looked as if it was covered with straw-colored shingles, which only added to the thatched appearance. Overall, it was quite clever, and not at all the cookie-cutter house of your typical suburban development.

  A moment later Jillian greeted him at the door and let him inside.

  “Make yourself at home” she said. “I’ve got to gather a couple things and then we can go.”

  John indulged in a quick glance as she walked away. Yes, he thought, she was quite like Susan, in many ways.

  As he waited in the living room, the first thing he noticed was a slight, somewhat earthy smell. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the scent, but it seemed right for a small cottage in the woods. The decor reinforced the same effect, but this wasn’t a peasant’s cottage. The living room floor was made of two-inch strips of well polished oak, covered with an occasional throw rug. Dark, 4-by-4 beams lined the white ceiling. The beams appeared to be of the same material as the window frames. They were some kind of composite, formed to look like wood. Each doorway and hallway from the main room was framed in the same material, but the dark accents didn’t make a dark house. The ceiling and walls were bright white with more than adequate indirect lighting provided by low-watt brass lamps, spaced regularly throughout the main room.

  The left and right walls had two exits each. He’d been in the kitchen and dining room on the right. The hallways on the left probably led to the bathroom and bedrooms.

  John heard footsteps in the kitchen and the characteristic beep of a microwave while he sat on the couch and investigated the magazines on the coffee table — a news magazine and a journal on herbs. He surveyed the room again for plants and noticed quite a few — potted, live plants as well as small bunches of dried leaves, which he assumed were herbs of one sort or another. That seemed to account for the pleasant smell.

  “Okay. All ready,” Jillian said as she came back bearing a casserole dish full of some kind of layered bean dip.

  He escorted her to his car, but since she was carrying the casserole dish with both hands there was no use offering her an arm. He opened the door for her and she smiled.

  Well that’s a good sign, anyway, he thought.

  “John,” Jillian began in that voice that says, “I have something hard to tell you and I’ve got to start by blurting out some words,” to which John replied, according to custom, “Yes?” He assumed this was going to be awkward. Probably something about her feelings.

  “A friend of mine named Sean is going to be at this party tonight, and I want you to meet him,” she began.

  An ex-?, John wondered. And why do I have to know this ahead of time?

  “He’s a friend, and has been more than a friend, and ... well, I want you two to get along.”

  John reached across the seat and took her hand.

  “Hey. Don’t worry,” he said. “Why shouldn’t I like the guy? Is he still interested in you or something?”

  “No. Well, ... yes and no. We parted amicably. Different visions of the future, that’s all. It’s complicated, but the gist of it is that no matter how much we like each other, things weren’t working out.”

  “I guess it’s better to find that out before it involves a judge,” John said, and then suddenly wondered if he’d assumed too much. Maybe Sean was an ex-husband. In that case he didn’t like the idea of the ex who wasn’t completely ex.

  He considered leaving right then. John knew from experience that no woman was worth a lot of drama. It might be time to cut his losses and move on.

  But there’s no need to be hasty, he thought. You’re not marrying this girl. Worry about the ex when it matters. It may never.

  Maybe she was making too much of things. He’d give it a try and see.

  As they approached their destination, John realized he had no idea what kind of an event this was. It could be a jousting tournament or a Tupperware party for all Jillian had told him. It seemed — or at least now John realized — that the only thing that mattered was that Sean and John would both be there. Obviously this meeting meant a lot to Jillian. But why? Was his presence at Jillian’s elbow supposed to scare the guy off? Was the break up one-sided?

  When they arrived at the house John pulled the car into the driveway and, with his hands poised to stop the engine, said, “I have to admit that I’m feeling a little weird about this.”

  Jillian glanced at his hands, still holding the keys, with the engine still running, and then she looked nervously at the house, as if she was wondering if they were going to make it. Something like a calculating look appeared on her face, John thought. But then something seemed to click in her mind and she turned back to John with an expression that seemed to teeter between betrayal, remorse and compassion.

  “I’m sorry, John. I guess I hadn’t considered this from your perspective, and I’m sure it’s a little awkward. Relax, okay. It won’t be a big deal.” She leaned across the seat and kissed him on the cheek.

  She turned to open her car door as if matters were settled, but the engine was still running. Jillian was frozen in place, stuck in the middle of a decision. John waited — he didn’t know these people, after all. Eventually she said, “John, what do you think of Wicca?”

  He almost laughed, and he tried desperately to keep curiosity, surprise and his suppressed laughter from showing, but it all combined to distort his face into a rather ghastly grin. He said, “I suppose the fairest thing to say is that I don’t know enough to have a real opinion, but as a general rule I’m not keen on any religion. Wicca included.”

  That answer seemed to placate Jillian’s concern, but she continued. “Do you have an open mind about it?”

  “Don’t take this wrong — I’m not trying to be smart or sarcastic — but doesn’t ‘I don’t know enough about it’ cover that?”

  John finally turned off the engine. He’d go inside, at least. If things didn’t improve, he’d just leave. No harm done.

  The lines of care seemed to fade from Jillian’s face as the engine died. Without giving any answer she collected her things and opened her car door. The two of them walked to the house in silence, but Jillian took his hand as they walked, and whether or not it’s possible to communicate emotion through a touch, John felt that deposits had been made into the emotional bank account.

  * * *

  A large, cheery, brightly dressed woman wearing a child’s party hat answered the door.

  “Merry meet,” she said, and welcomed them inside with a kiss on the cheek.

  “So where’s little Bethy?” Jillian asked, handing the woman her bean dip with her right hand and with her left retrieving from the depths of her purse a small package wrapped in Barney paper.

  “Oh this looks marvelous. Is it getting cold outside? Let’s close the door. She adores Barney. Bean dip? Perfect. She’s in the family room with her friends, making a mess. The candles are on the dry sink. You know where it is.” As John’s brain tried to sort out the tangle of breathless sentences, the hostess turned to face him and extended a hand. “I’m Anne.”

  “John Matthews. Pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand, but thinking that a handshake was a bit odd after she’d already kissed him.

  Anne smiled pleasantly, but he could tell he’d disappointed her somehow.

  Maybe I was supposed to use the code word, he thought. ‘Merry meet to you too’?

  On her way to the family room Jillian stopped in the foyer to light two candles beneath a pair of statues: the god and the goddess, John assumed. Several candles were already lit, and they gave the room a subdued, golden light that seemed both pleasant and relaxing — doubly so now that he kne
w he was going to a child’s birthday party. The thought of staying here and praying for a while seemed oddly appealing.

  As John watched the flicker of the candles he remembered a similar effect around a shrine in a cathedral he’d toured while studying in school. The smell of the candles and the changing, chaotic light tugged at something in his heart, or his subconscious, and he paused for a moment to recollect.

  The statue of the male deity looked like something he’d seen in a history book a long time ago — horned, wild, unkempt, fit and muscular, and almost goatish — but as he recalled from the same book, the female deities from the same era were usually quite fat by modern standards. This one had a much more modern body — shapely and well endowed.

  The moment’s reflection took him back to comparative religion classes, and he recalled his wonder that anyone, no matter how primitive, could take such a thing seriously. But as he stood there in a modern house, apparently in the presence of modern pagans, he realized that in school he’d assumed that the pagans worshipped the statues as if they — the wood or the stone itself — were somehow sacred. That had never made any sense to John because the worshipper had probably just carved the silly thing out of a block of wood. But seeing these figures in the home of reasonably sensible people, he saw it all in a different light. This statue represented the deity the way a garden Madonna might represent the Virgin.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught Jillian watching him, and it seemed to him that she might be mistaking his reverie for reverence, which didn’t bother John at all. He wasn’t responsible for her misinterpretations, and if it smoothed things over, so much the better.

  But it’s still crazy, he thought a moment later as he followed the women into the family room. A gaggle of children were playing with party hats, throwing confetti at each other and mummy-wrapping some small victim with paper streamers and toilet paper. The victim didn’t seem to be throwing a fit so John assumed the air supply was secure — for the time being.

  A few parents were huddled in corners, trying to make the best of bug juice and kid-friendly snacks. A red-bearded, slightly beer-bellied fellow with a tangle of thick blonde hair rose from a padded chair in the corner and approached John. His weather-worn tunic of orange with brown trim looked as if it had been fitted to a younger and thinner frame. The sleeves stopped at the middle of the forearm, and the v-neck had a leather thong tie, which dangled loose. His baggy pants looked like sweats, but they were clearly homemade, and possibly homespun. Odd leather sandals —a thick sole with straps that wrapped around his feet and partway up his calf — completed the outfit and made him every bit the Celtic villager from a National Geographic magazine. Aside from the fillings in his teeth.