She never came out.
The blond woman had disappeared. My feelings about her vaporizing ambushed me. I should have felt, maybe, a sense of lost opportunity, or perhaps a touch of disappointment. But I ended up feeling terribly disconsolate, as though a lover had just told me she really just wanted to be friends.
I assured myself that my overreaction was a sign of my temporary insecurity. I was in a new town. I had an internship coming, and with it new responsibilities, and new opportunities to screw up. I had no apartment and a budget that was about as flexible as my fifth-grade English teacher.
That's all this overreaction was about, that's all it was.
Twice more that day I stood still as a statue, thinking that once again I could feel her nearby. Both times I waited for the invisible breeze to pass again over my exposed flesh.
It never did.
Late that afternoon I chanced onto a small duplex that I liked on Clermont Street only a couple of blocks from where I would be working, the apartment was a one-bedroom that cost fifty dollars more a month than I could afford, but it was available immediately and I wouldn't have to drive to work or extend mv motel stav, so I rationalized away the extra expense.
I made a final trip to the housing office to remove my name from the "needs apartment or flat" roster. Of course I checked the room for her. Of course she wasn't there, the only person in the room at the end of the day was a clerk, a rotund man with the blackest hair and darkest eyes I'd ever seen in my life. I offered him a smila and told him he was losing a customer.
"Found a place?"
"Yeah, a duplex on Clermont."
"Congratulations. Name?"
"Gregory, Alan."
He looked up from his pencil. "Which one's first? Gregory, or Alan?"
"Alan. Gregory is my last name."
"Just a second,” he said, while he wheezed through his mouth and flipped through his card file. "Here you are. Okav, vou're history. Got an address for me? For the university directory?"
I gave him my new address. In my mind, as I did. I saw her daypack hanging from her shoulder. In my mind I remembered that it had an embroidered monogram on it.
SAS.
Once again. I thought. Why not?
"I'm looking for someone who was here earlier in the day, a girl, a, a woman. I don't know her name, her initials are S— A— S, the directory you mentioned? May I take a look at it, see if I can find a match?"
"You know her initials but not her name?" His face turned suspicious. "You're what? A resident?"
"Clinical psychology intern."
"And what? You want to ask her out or something?"
"Exactly. Something."
He shivered a little, as though he couldn't imagine doing what I was doing, looked at me askance, and asked. "Got ID?"
"From the medical school? No, not yet. Psychology interns don't start until August one."
He shrugged as though he had no interest in my romantic explorations, he said. "Don't have the new directory printed yet, but you can see the typewritten list they've sent me so far." He flipped through a thick file. "Here's the S's, maybe she's in here." He pushed the stapled pages across the counter at me and turned his attention to a big bottle of diet Dr Pepper.
I carried the directory over to the long table against the wall, the dozen or so pages had thirteen entries with the initials S.S. I was a little discouraged. Why couldn't her monogram have read KTZ?
Five of the names belonged to obvious males. I ruled them out. Of the remaining eight names, three were M.D.s and one was a Ph.D. Earlier that day the clerk in the housing office had called the woman "Doctor." I ruled out the names of the four without doctoral degrees.
Three of the remaining names had obviously female first names, the other one's first name was Sawyer.
Sawyer Sackett, androgynous. Couldn't exclude it.
I turned and asked the clerk if I could use the phone.
He said. "Think I care?" I was pretty sure he would be listening to every word I said.
I called the work number of the first of the Dr. S.S.s, Susan Sipple, PhD.
I was connected to a secretary at the School of Pharmacy.
"Hello. I'm trying to reach an old friend who lives in Denver, her name is Susan Sipple. Is— ?"
"Dr. Sipple? Just a moment, please."
"No, no, no. Excuse me. I want to make sure I have the right Susan Sipple. Could you describe her for me?"
"Sure, she has brown hair and beautiful green eyes and—"
"About how old would you say she is?"
"I don't know, mavbe forty, forty-five."
"I'm sorry to trouble you, but that's not my friend. Thanks."
I hung up and had roughly the same conversation with a more suspicious someone named Tammy in the School of Nursing regarding a professor named Sandra Sorenson.
My next call let me know that Sylvia Spencer. M.D., of the Department of Pediatrics was now working at St. Jude's in Memphis.
I was left with Sawyer Sackett's name, the directory listing had her living in the six hundred block of Cherry Street. Which happened to be in the general direction that I thought I might have seen the blond head disappear across Eighth Avenue. I called the listed work number for Dr. Sackett.
A voice answered. "Clinic."
Big help there. "Hello. I'm trying to reach a Dr. Sawyer Sackett, the one I'm looking for has a middle initial of A. Is this the right number for her?"
The woman responded sarcastically: "You think we have two Dr. Sawyer Sacketts on staff?"
"I just want to be certain."
"I don't know any doctor's middle initials. I barely remember my brother's middle initial. Do you want an appointment?" Her tone told me she thought I could use one.
"Is Dr. Sackett blond?"
"You want to know Dr. Sackett's hair color?"
"Please. I don't want to bother the doctor if it's not the right one."
Exasperated, the woman said. "Dr. Sackett has blond hair. May I ask what this is about?"
"I'm another trainee."
"Is this about a patient?"
I lied "Yes."
"Well, she's with a patient. I'll tell her you called. Your name. Doctor?"
The gender finally registered, she said "her. "Sha said, "She's with a patient."
Pleased. I said. "No. I'll call her back."
"Suit yourself." She hung up.
I handed the directory back to the clerk in the housing office, he asked. "You find her?"
I nodded. "Think so."
"Good luck,” he said.
"Thanks." I said. "My luck wasn't too good this morning, but it's improving. I think."
The next day I moved my few belongings into my new furnished apartment. I was pleased with how bright the apartment was and delighted I could walk to work in two minutes. Twice I took breaks from my chores and made the two-block stroll to Cherry Street where Dr. Sawyer A. Sackett lived in a prim little Tudor that was camouflaged by junipers.
I didn't see her and didn't know what I would have done if I had.
I spent half of Saturday night drafting a note to her. I spent the other half convincing myself that any self-respecting woman would view my efforts as moronic or dangerous, not romantic.
The next morning I woke up at five, got up at six, gave myself a pep talk, and walked by her house. Instead of using the mail slot. I slipped the note into the Sunday New York Times that had been dropped onto her front walk. I hesitated about the placement of the note, finally deciding that the missive should be placed, appropriately; in front of Week in Review.
• • •
Most of the next week passed and she didn't call. I convinced myself she was involved with someone. Denver was hot and dry, my apartment wasn't air-conditioned, and I was regretting moving to town so long before my internship was set to begin.
I thought about Sawyer Sackett a lot. Way too much, with monumental effort. I forced myself to stop strolling past her house twice daily. I didn't
really want to be spotted by her boyfriend or husband.
On Friday afternoon, my phone rang for only the second time since it had been installed. It startled me.
After I said hello, an unfamiliar, sweet female voice asked. "Is this Alan Gregory?"
My mouth turned dry. I managed to say; "Yes."
"Hi." She laughed. "It's not who you're hoping for. My name is Mona. Mona Terwilliger. You don't know me, but I'm a friend of Sawyer Sackett's."
"Oh." I said as casually as I could. "The note."
She laughed again. "Yes, the note."
"When I didn't hear from her I figured she was offended. Or at the very least, uninterested."
"Actually, she thought it was sweet. I think she did.
anyway, she showed the note to all her friends. Listen. I'm
having a party at my apartment tomorrow night. Just a
casual thing, a couple of dozen people. Sawyer thought it
might be fun if you came. You interested?"
"Yes. I am. I am interested, she'll be there?" "She says she will. But you never quite know what
Sawyer is going to do. Don't worry, the rest of us are a lot
of fun. Especially me."
She gave me directions to a condo near Cheesman
Park and said the party started at sunset. "You can come
early if you want, the view is special."
Later, after a lot of years on the Front Range in Colorado, the Terwilliger name would feel familiar to me. Mona's family owned a fence company that dominated the industry from Fort Collins to Colorado Springs. On every installation the company placed a burgundy tin plaque that read "A Terwilliger Fence." Some of the considerable family income had been used to buy the tenth-floor condo on Race Street where Mona lived with her younger sister on the east side of Cheesman Park, just a half mile west of the medical center campus.
I had been buzzed into the lobby and took the elevator to the tenth floor, the door to the condo was open, so I walked in, the place was a sea of green. Pine green carpets. Sea green wallpaper. Lime green Formica on the kitchen counters, appliance green appliances. No one greeted me. Everyone who had arrived before me had assembled on the balcony to watch the blue sky melt into the oranges, reds, and purples of sunset.
Cheesman is one of Denver's three jewel parks. Built on the site of a nineteenth-century cemetery, it is a large urban oasis of grand design that is blessed with stunning views of the mountains, the park was beautiful, but not as beautiful as the sun setting over the distant mountains.
And certainly not as beautiful as Sawyer Sackett.
I was confident I would have radar for Sawyer, and I spotted her immediately, she was leaning back against the railing on the left side of the balcony, her hands behind her, the contours of her chest accentuated by her posture, she was smiling, slyly I thought, talking to two men who looked a little older than me. I hesitated in the dining room while I poured myself a glass of wine. I concluded that the two men with her were physicians, real doctors, and I didn't have a chance with her.
For a few more moments I enjoyed my anonymity, realizing that no one knew who I was, and no one knew what I looked like.
Another minute or so passed before a tall woman with a recent perm and a big smile walked up to me and said. "Hi. I'm Mona."
"Alan Gregory/ I said. "Thanks for the invitation."
We shook hands.
She took a half step back and eyed me, then she moved forward, standing no more than ten inches away; and said. "You're cute, she's gonna like that. I didn't peg you as the shy type, though. Why are you hanging out in here?"
I shrugged. "This is all pretty odd for me. Mona. What I did. I mean, with the note and everything. It's not something I've ever done before. I don't know exactly what to do next."
Mona touched a small pendant that hung at the top of her breasts, exactly where her ample cleavage was exposed, her fingers lingered on the jewelry until she saw my eyes drop.
Point, Mona.
"You shouldn't be self-conscious about what you did,” she said. "I'm sure by now everybody here has heard your story."
I laughed. "And that's supposed to be reassuring?"
"Sure. It was romantic, what you did." She appraised me carefully. "Once they lay their eyes on you and see how cute you are, all the women in the room will wish you had sent them the note, and once they see you with Sawyer, all the men will wish they had written it."
"You're quite sure of yourself, aren't you?"
"I have ulterior motives, alan Gregory. I don't know her well. Sawyer. But what I think is this: She's intrigued by you, by what you did, what you said in your note, and my guess is that she's going to think you're gorgeous. But I think— no, I'm sure— Sawyer ultimately is going to blow you off, and I know that besides her. I'm going to be the sweetest thing you meet at this party."
She touched the pendant again. I tried not to look.
I failed.
Sawyer walked up behind her.
"So are you the one?" she asked, laughing.
"lam." '
"You've got balls,” she said. "I'll give you that. I'm Sawyer." She stared at me, her eyes never leaving my face.
We shook hands.
I said. "Thanks for taking the chance."
"What chance is that?" she asked.
I started to reply, but she walked past me, poured two inches of Maker's Mark into a wineglass, speared a big shrimp wTapped in prosciutto, and took long strides back out to the balcony.
I didn't say another word to Sawyer that night but watched her from a distance as I made small talk with Mona and a few of the other guests. Darkness descended and smothered the park. Sawyer was never by herself for more than a few seconds, she attracted men the way a salt lick attracts deer, the dance she did as men approached her was unsettling to watch, she flirted, yes, but without any joy, her eyes were daring but not inviting. Not once did I catch her stealing a surreptitious glimpse my way.
I made a quick judgment that she was wounded and that I was the perfect one to comfort her. I also decided that the other men couldn't see it— her distress. This intuition about her pain was not a benevolent assessment on my part. I met Sawyer at a time in my life when I couldn't imagine someone wanting me for who I was. I entered virtually every relationship endeavoring to decipher what I could provide to cement someone's interest in me.
That evening, it turned out, my radar about Sawyer Sackett was accurate. Mv assessment, unfortunatelv- was flawed.
SEVEN
Sawyer had left the party at Mona's condo early: arm in arm with the pair of men she had been talking with on the balcony. I tried not to let my imagination run away with me and ended up leaving shortly thereafter, first promising to meet Mona for racquetball the following week at someplace she called the DAC.
Mona was a philosophy student at Denver University who had met Sawyer at a lecture they were both attending at the Natural History Museum. Mona turned out to be as bright as she was flirtatious and as much fun as she had advertised, she was also one terrific racquetball player, she took me two out of three games on the air-conditioned courts at the Downtown Athletic Club on the edge of Denver's business district. Mona was an attractive woman and a bold, amusing companion, but nothing was clicking romantically for me with her. I thought she might be disappointed, she said she wasn't, we made plans to have lunch and to play again the following week.
But she refused to let me fish around for information about Sawyer. "I'm not telling you a thing, not that I have much to tell,” she said.
"She's hurting about something, isn't she?" I asked.
Mona seemed surprised by my query. "Sawyer?" She narrowed her eyes.
"Yes."
"I don't know about anything."
"But you see it too, don't you?"
She shook her head in a way that suggested that I drop it. "You're on your own with Sawyer, just like me, just like everybody else."
"That means what?"
"S
he's not an easy woman to be friends with. It means what it means,” she said.
In my original note to Sawyer. I'd promised not to call her unless she called me. Technically, she hadn't called me, so I kept my promise and didn't phone her. I'd been tempted, but I hadn't succumbed. I was so asinine with infatuation that I had myself convinced that this was actually my game and that I had written the rules.
The party invitation had raised my hopes that I might hear from her, but by midweek I'd decided that I'd failed the audition that Sawyer had arranged at Mona's soiree. So I was surprised on Thursday morning when I found a note in a pink envelope in the copy of the Rocky Mountain News I collected from my front porch, the note summoned me to a restaurant called the Firefly Cafe at four-thirty that afternoon. It was signed with a flourishing S.
I checked for perfume. None.
I arrived at the restaurant right on time.
She seemed relaxed, and happy to see me.
"I got off lucky. My brother's name is Clemens. It's my daddy's thing, he read Tom Sawyer to me for the first time when I was only four."
We were sitting on the little patio on the west side of the Firefly, on East Colfax, not too far from the medical center. I was trying to convince myself that this plate of soggy nachos and these cold beers on a muggy July afternoon constituted our first date. But verbalizing that to Sawyer— seeking consensus, as it were— felt both immature and foolish. From the moment I saw the back of her blond head that first time. Sawyer wasn't a "let's be friends" candidate for me.
She had to know that. I hadn't felt so erotically charged since high school.
Other than that half minute in Mona's dining room, I hadn't really been able to look at Sawyer up close When I finally had the chance. I noticed right away that her eyes danced constantly. Save for an occasional blink, they never seemed to narrow at all, instead were always open wide to everything in a way that was not incredulous, not naive, but daring and daunting, and sad, too, heavy. I continued to feel some assurance that her sadness was going to be my entree, the temptation I felt was to lock on to her eyes, to submerge myself in them; to count the golden specks that dotted the blue like a design for a flag for some country where I wanted to live forever. But her irises danced so incessantly that I hesitated, perhaps knowing that I was doomed to follow, never to capture them, certainly never to lead.
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