Falling in Love

by Stephen Bradlee

  That afternoon, while Paul repaired my car, I sipped coffee in the local café as the locals gossiped. Oak Grove appeared to be a quaint little hamlet that enjoyed a certain amount of tourism, mostly fishermen, and New Yorkers who occasionally built vacation homes on the nearby Serene Lake. The locals debated the wisdom of allowing such city folk within their midst. As the coffee-and-pie crowd gave way to the dinner crowd, Paul came in to announce that my car was running fine. Despite his offer of free labor, the parts alone pretty much emptied my purse. After I admitted that I had only eaten two donuts all day, Paul insisted that I dine with him at the Lakeshore Restaurant.

  We sat on the terrace overlooking the tranquil lake, reflecting a fiery sunset. “Oak Grove’s best restaurant,” Paul assured me and suggested that I order the special, striped bass.

  I surveyed the menu’s right side, grateful that I wasn’t paying, while Paul gave me some of the highlights of living in Oak Grove. I feigned interest as well as I could but was mostly grateful that Paul wasn’t asking me about my life, a topic I wanted very much to avoid.

  Paul seemed fine with doing the talking and moved on to his childhood. Paul’s father had been a purchasing manager for a factory in Sparta, the largest nearby town, and often worked late with his secretary. The day after the factory closed, Paul’s father and his secretary disappeared and hadn’t been heard from since.

  Paul then returned to joys of living in Oak Grove from mountain biking on a nearby mountain to sunset canoeing on the lake. But the more convincing he sounded the more I felt like he was trying to persuade himself, rather than me, that he loved living in the Hudson Valley.

  Paul then got around to the dreaded subject, me. I mentioned that Rosebud was a village about the size of Oak Grove. Since Paul had just regaled me with the joys of small town living, I wondered about voicing my opinion that small towns bred small people with small minds exchanging small talk about others, usually putting them down to make themselves just a little bit bigger. Instead, I stuck to the facts.

  “Your uncle and aunt have always lived together?” Paul asked. “Neither one of them ever married?”

  I nodded. “They were like a married couple without the marriage. My uncle worked and my aunt stayed home and cooked and cleaned for him and kept the house. After a while they just got used to it, I guess, and so did everyone else. She always told everyone at church that I was the burden who kept her from meeting and marrying a nice man, the burden that was going to get her a higher place in heaven when she finally moved on. That never made any sense to me,” I noted. “I mean, if heaven is this perfect place what difference does it make if you are a couple of notches higher?”

  I admitted that before this excursion, I had never been out of Indiana. I had spent almost two semesters at the University in Bloomington on an academic scholarship but that I had some problems.

  Paul looked interested and instantly, I regretted admitting that. “What kind of problems?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.” Trying to change the subject, I offered, “I’ve wanted to leave Rosebud for a long time and now that I finally have, I’m never going back.”

  Paul smiled, “All I can say is that there must be something wrong with the guys in Indiana to let you out of the state.”

  “There are,” I agreed, “at least the ones I’ve known.” We both laughed.

  During dinner, the fiery sunset turned into lovely soft moonlight that was very romantic. I felt myself falling hard for Paul. But how could I? Less than twenty-four hours before wasn’t I deeply in love with another man, pledging to spend the rest of my life with him? Could I fall out of love that quickly and back into love with another guy? How could I? I pushed these thoughts out of my mind and tried to just enjoy this lovely moment with Paul.

  As Paul sipped his coffee, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his sports coat. Despite the cigarette butts in the tow truck’s ashtray, I hadn’t seen Paul smoke before. He noticed me eying the pack. “You mind? I’m trying to quit. But I love having one with a cup of coffee after a great meal.”

  I smiled and admitted. “I’m trying to quit, too. I stopped buying them, at least.”

  He offered me one. Paul felt in his pockets for a light and then looked around for a waiter.

  “I think I have one,” I offered. I rifled through my purse and my small book with the tattered picture spilled out onto the floor. Paul retrieved them and studied the picture of the two smiling teen girls lying on a riverbank.

  “My mother and her best friend, Elaine,” I explained. He read the book’s title: Robert Louis Stevenson’s, A Child’s Garden of Verses. “Apparently my mother loved poetry, like me,” I added. “Sometimes, I still say those poems to cheer myself up.”

  He handed the book back to me and said, “I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me.”

  I laughed and replied, “And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.” People at the next table had begun staring at us. “Is that all you know?” I asked

  “Pretty much.”

  “Good, because I think that couple over there thinks we’re crazy.”

  Paul shrugged. “Who cares?”

  “You do. You live here.”

  He sipped his coffee and tried to appear serious. “Okay, we’ll talk business.”

  He pulled his card from his jacket and held it up for me to see that he really was a lawyer and then dropped it into my purse. “Ever work in a law firm?”

  I shook my head.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he replied. “I can teach you whatever you need to know.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You’re not,” Paul insisted. “I’m offering. It’s really perfect timing. My secretary left on Friday for her vacation.”

  I looked at him, wondering. “And I suppose you have a place for me to stay?”

  He nodded.

  “You could stay with me—”

  I flashed anger. “—Look, if this is some game you’re playing to—”

  Paul held up both hands. “—or with my unimpeachable Aunt Arlene,” he finished quickly.

  I softened, embarrassed by my outburst. “I’m sorry,” I said, “but maybe you seem too good to be true, a shining knight in a white tow truck.

  “I’m serious. This is totally business.” He paused, smiled, and added, “Well, maybe not totally business.”

  He leaned in closer and again I experienced that feeling I’d had that afternoon when I thought he was going to kiss me. Paul must have felt it too since he stood up, insisting, “I can’t take this anymore.” He took me into his arms and began dancing across the terrace, weaving between the tables.

  I couldn’t believe he was doing this? Wasn’t he embarrassed? Was he insane? But I was following him as best I could while mentioning, “There’s no music.”

  He began humming “I Could Have Danced All Night” and waltzed me back across the terrace. Other diners stared incredulously at us but Paul didn’t seem to care. “They already think we’re crazy,” he reminded me.

  He built to a crescendo and then picked me up, spinning me around while he gave me a long luxurious kiss. I was thankful that he was literally sweeping me off my feet since I was sure that my knees would be buckling. It was intoxicating. The day had just seemed so romantic. Paul seemed so romantic. Despite my misgivings about these sudden reversals in my love life, I just couldn’t help falling head over heels in love with Paul. It was almost literally head over heels as he sidestepped a waiter, tripped on a chair and we nearly went over the terrace railing. Paul just laughed, bent me backward and kissed me again.

  Paul called his aunt who said that I would be most welcome. On the way to her house, as he kissed me at each red light, I realized that I didn’t know Paul’s last name. “Manning,” he informed me. “Paul Michael Manning, Esquire, at your service, Mademoiselle.” Immediately, to see how it felt, like a schoolgirl, I thought to myself, Mrs. Paul Manning. Mrs. Sherry Manning. It felt so childish bu
t I didn’t care. By the time, we pulled up at his aunt’s lovely home on a peaceful tree-lined street, I didn’t want the night to end. I wanted to be with Paul forever.

  Paul gave me one last kiss outside his aunt’s door. When we came up for air, he asked, “You’re sure you don’t want to stay with me?”

  Even though I desperately wanted to spend the night with him, I knew that it was exactly the wrong thing to do. I wanted him to think of me as someone special, not some easy girl he picked up on a roadside.

  “Very sure,” I replied quickly before I changed my mind. Then I remained quiet, fearing that I might say something I would regret.

  “Okay,” said Paul. He gave me a warm smile and rang the doorbell. “Will you come to church with me tomorrow?”

  I hesitated, before admitting, “I kind of stopped believing in God.”

  “Why? When?” he asked.

  “When I was nine.”

  “Nine?” He laughed. “No Santa Claus, no God?”

  “Something like that. Can I come and not pray?”

  “Sure. I’ll pray for us both.”

  The door opened and behind the screen stood a sixtyish, heavyset woman with gray hair and a round face with large, sparkling eyes above a broad smile. Arlene invited Paul in for a cup of tea but he declined, saying that he would pick us both up at 7:45 a.m. Arlene led me into her cozy kitchen with its early American décor and we shared a cup of raspberry tea.

  Aunt Arlene was easy to talk to, since she did most of the talking and I only had to listen. She talked about Paul when he was young and her own two children who had grown up and now lived on the West Coast.

  Finally, she looked at the clock and remarked that it was past her bedtime.

  She led me upstairs to a small room pretty much filled up by an antique double bed and big antique dresser near the door to a small bathroom.

  “I hope you like a hard bed,” Aunt Arlene remarked.

  “I’m sure it’s fine.”

  She set two towels and a washcloth on the bed. “Well, I’ll let you get to bed. Paul said you didn’t get much last night.”

  “But if you’re staying up, I’d be happy to—”

  She cut me off, saying, “—Not me. I’m headed for bed.” She walked to the door and then paused as if she had been waiting all evening to mention something. “Was Paul right about you loving poetry?”

  I nodded.

  She gave me a sly smile and asked, “Can I tell you something? If you promise not to tell anyone in Oak Grove?”

  “I know so many,” I mentioned.

  “You might if Paul has his way.” She smiled slyly again. “For four years now, everyone in town thinks I play bridge in Sparta every Thursday. But actually, I’ve been taking a poetry-writing course at the junior college.” She laughed. “I have this dream that after I’ve dead, my poems will be discovered and published.”

  “Why don’t you try to publish them now?” I asked.

  Arlene shook her head. “If it turns out that I’m some old broad babbling about nothing, I want to be dead first.”

  “What does your teacher say?”

  “That my ‘verse is alive.’”

  “I’d love to read some.”

  She shook her head again. “When I’m dead, Dear, when I’m dead.” She smiled. “But I’ve longed to share that secret for years. Thank you.”

  She hugged me and then walked out, saying, “I’m a light sleeper. So if you need anything, just give a shout.”

  I sat down on the bed, exhausted from my long day but exhilarated at meeting Paul and having a job and a place to stay until I could try to sort out my life.

  I glanced at a side table. On it was a picture of a young boy about ten who looked like Paul, proudly holding up a big fish. I picked up the picture and held it to my chest, embracing it. But I felt an old unwanted feeling coming over me. Relax, Sherry, I told myself. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.

  I took a deep breath and paced around the room, trying to control this horrible urge inside me. You know better, Sherry, I reminded myself. Don’t ruin this.

  I grabbed my suitcase and opened it. My clothes were still jammed inside from my quick escape from Rosebud. Trying to control myself, I meticulously took out each piece, straightened them and placed them neatly inside the oak dresser. Then I pulled out a very short, low cut dress. I stared at it, pleading to myself, Don’t, Sherry. Please! But I knew that, once again, I would. I flung the dress on the bed and pulled off my sweater, telling myself, as I had so many times before, Just this once more!

  I donned the dress and rushed into the bathroom to make myself up. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. While applying eyeliner, I kept telling myself that this was the last time. The very last time!

  I crept along the dimly-lit hallway, past Arlene’s open bedroom door. A board creaked below my high heels.

  Arlene glanced up. “Sherry?”

  She flipped on a lamp and I stood there in the naked pale light. “I’m just getting a pack of cigarettes,” I said.

  Arlene stared at me. “Dressed like that?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said quickly and ran down the stairs.

  I walked several blocks along the deserted main street to the garage and got into my Grand Am. I then headed out of town passed the sign informing me that Sparta was twelve more miles.

  Sparta had none of the charm of Oak Grove and appeared to be an old manufacturing center but now its two main factories were darkened like two black eyes at the edge of town. I stopped at a Quick Mart for a pack of cigarettes and learned that the only bar still open was the Depot at the far end of town. I got into my car, lit a cigarette and inhaled hard, hoping to die of cancer right there and do myself and the world a favor. But it didn’t happen, so I squealed out onto the street.

  The Depot was an old train station with high cantilever ceilings, photos of old trains adorning walls and a deafening sound system that played nonstop rock music. I slowly elbowed my way up to the bar hoping that some guy might notice me. Before anyone did, the bartender noticed me and I tried to yell above the music that I wanted a beer.

  There were about ten guys for every girl so it wasn’t long before several guys began hovering around me. A tall, chubby guy nudged up to me. He was wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed I’m Party Trained and looked like he had already drunk more than his share of beers. He didn’t even bother to try talking above the music but simply pulled me on the dance floor. There was nothing really special about him, except that he was the first to dance with me and I was in a hurry.

  He lead me to the side of the dance floor, which was apparently on the route of several waitresses, all of whom he seemed to know and they managed to keep the stream of beers flowing our way without us having to leave the dance floor. Occasionally, a tiny little thing in an even tinier outfit came by with a tray of shots and he never let her pass by without us knocking back a couple filled with some unspecified liquor that seemed to go straight from my mouth to my head. After a few I felt like I might get sick but I wasn’t sure if it was from the shots or the situation.

  After downing a few more shots, I had accomplished what I had set out to achieve, a mind-numbing dead drunk state. I always seemed to be in this state whenever I humiliated myself like I was about to do yet again.

  There were brief moments of relief from the throbbing beat, during which my dance partner told me his name and chatted warmly about himself. I immediately forgot his name and didn’t think it was only because of the drinking. I didn’t want to remember his name. I didn’t want to remember my name. I knocked back another shot.

  He grabbed my shoulders and glanced down my low-cut dress, observing, “You are one beautiful babe.”

  I smiled.

  He suggested, “What say we go for a walk and cool off?”

  I nodded.

  We stumbled outside into the dimly-lit parking lot and he led me toward his pickup, saying, “What say we take a little ride to somepla
ce a bit quieter?” He smiled wickedly. “Like my place.”

  We got into his truck and he pulled me close to him, giving me a wet, boozy kiss. He started the engine but I didn’t want to go anywhere with him. I didn’t want anything but to get rid of the horrible urge inside of me as quickly as possible. I began unzipping his pants.

  “Hey, Honey? I don’t live that far. Jesus, you’re in a hurry.”

  I was, and within a minute I had him out of his pants and was working on him. As soon as he was hard, I flung off my panties and got on top of him. But I never gave him one thought. I was imagining myself making love to Paul, on our honeymoon somewhere on some Caribbean Island. Even though it seemed crazy, this was what I thinking, that I was making love to Paul.

  I rushed toward a climax, leaving him far behind and he let me know it, complaining, “Slow down a little, will you, Honey? I think I had a few too many beers.”

  I went faster until finally that horrible urge was released.

  “I’m almost there, Honey,” he was saying.

  But I was overcome with revulsion, now stone-cold sober and humiliated, hating myself.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, jumping off him.

  “What?”

  I opened the door and rushed out, trying to smooth out my dress. He jumped out after me, grabbing at his pants with one hand and holding up my panties with the other.

  “Hey, what about me?” he protested, adding, “You forgot these!” He threw the panties at me as I jumped into my car, locking the doors. But he didn’t pursue me. Instead he wheeled around toward the truck, saying, “Wham, bam. Thank you, Ma’am.”

  As I shot away, I saw him slap his side, letting go of his pants, which dropped to his ankles and he tripped, falling back into his pickup.

  I sped all the way back to Oak Grove, as if somehow that might put what I’d done behind me faster. But instead, I carried it with me, knowing that my transgression was so stupid, that Arlene was sure to tell Paul and I would have to come up with some lie. I hated having to lie to Paul, and I hated myself and my life.