Chapter 33 – An Unexpected Letter (Marianne Plante’s Story)
Sunday morning June 8, 2008 – 6:30 AM
After a fitful night of sleep, Newlan woke up at the crack of dawn, as he did just about every Sunday morning, with thoughts of caffeine, not to mention Janis Barry, on his mind.
One of Newlan’s favorite rituals was to spend his Sabbath skimming through the Sunday newspaper while sipping a good cup of coffee and listening to some cool jazz, and afterwards tuning into the weekly blues show on the local Boston radio station, 100.6 WXLZ.
When Newlan first moved into his condo, he could scarcely wrap his head around the convenient concept that the complex came equipped with a US Mail Box and a newspaper vending machine down in the lobby of the building. He paid well over 300 thousand dollars for all of the conveniences and luxury amenities that the complex had to offer, but when he’d describe his condo to someone, invariably, one of the first things he would mention was, “…and I can mail a letter and get the Sunday paper without ever leaving the building!”
You see, for Newlan it was the little things in life that provided him with some semblance of normalcy, and so regardless of how exhausted he felt this morning, he was still determined to drag his sorry ass down to the lobby and buy a newspaper before they ran out.
Newlan was still a bit groggy as he crawled out of bed, but he vaguely remembered dreaming about being trapped in Judge Gershwin’s courtroom. Except that this time he was sitting in the defendant’s chair, charged with adultery, and upon being found guilty, she summarily sent him off to the House of Corrections for six months. And as the court officers, Billy and Brandon, dragged him away, bound in shackles, he begged for leniency; he prayed for an 11th hour reprieve that never came; he pleaded for a pardon that never made its way off of the Governor’s desk.
To make matters worse, Newlan suddenly recalled that in his dream he was accused of sleeping with his now married high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, which sent a chill running up and down his spine.
“It figures, I get sent up the river for something I didn’t do…hmmm, of course if I had the opportunity, I might not be able to resist. On second thought, what the hell am I thinking? Thank God it was only a dream,” muttered Newlan as he rode the plummeting elevator down to the lobby.
“I guess it’s like Officer Jimmy Leach said…if they get you for something that you didn’t do…then it’s usually payback for something you got away with,” pondered Newlan until his head hurt. But by the time the elevator reached the ground floor he had come to the logical conclusion that his latest nightmare was probably just a guilty reaction to all of those furtive carnal trips over to Janis Barry’s apartment while she was still married to her first husband.
And with his conscious cleared, Newlan cheerfully made his way across the lobby towards the newspaper machine, while at the same time waving to the overnight doorman, Charlie, whom he rarely interacted with other than on Sunday mornings or late Saturday nights after a night out on the town.
Newlan was somewhat surprised to see Saeed Kahn up at this early hour, loitering around the security desk, chatting with his concierge counterpart. Kahn was attired in a long tunic, which was accompanied by a traditional scarf-like garment that he had wrapped around his head, and he was carrying a large, leather-bound, hardcover book in his arms.
“Must be his version of the Bible,” concluded Newlan who assumed that Kahn was off to some sort of religious ceremony. But either way, he didn’t give it much thought.
Newlan chuckled to himself as he imagined how his best friend Bruce Reardon would have reacted if he had come across Kahn dressed in his devotional garb.
“He definitely would have made some wiseass comment like, ‘what’s with the towel-head?’” confidently predicted Newlan.
Ever since the very first time that Reardon had encountered Kahn in the lobby and the dutiful doorman gave him an all-encompassing third degree interrogation before letting him into the building, Reardon was resentful of him. And being a man who relied heavily on first impressions, he remained that way no matter how hard Newlan tried to play peacemaker.
“What’s the fuckin’ problem with the security guard? I felt like telling him to take a hike and go get a job in a convenience store,” complained Reardon after his initial meeting with Saeed Kahn, to which Newlan responded, “leave the poor guy alone Bruce…he’s just doing his job.”
But in spite of Reardon’s jibes, Newlan himself tended to humor Kahn, and on this fine morning, he wasn’t going to let anything bother him (regardless of the fact that Kahn appeared to be shooting him a dirty look, which he assumed was related to his rambunctious partner Janis Barry’s noisy outbursts last night as she thrashed around his bed in the throes of arousal).
While Newlan was down in the lobby, he took the opportunity to drop a few bills into the US Mail slot, and then he dropped a few coins into the newspaper vending machine slot, and within seconds he was eagerly headed back up to his condo for a strong cup of coffee, and the commencement of his Sunday morning ritual. But alas, at the last second one more errand came to mind.
“Oh shit I forgot to get my mail,” realized the brain-dead Newlan just as he was about to hop onto the elevator, and so he made a sudden sharp u-turn back towards the lobby. As usual, a few days had gone by since he last remembered to check his mail, so he wasn’t too surprised to find that a heap of bills and a wide assortment of advertisement circulars had built up in his mail slot in between his irregular turns at emptying it out.
Newlan irritably grabbed at the pile of junk mail, and he kept himself occupied by sorting through the stack of letters as the elevator vaulted him back up to the sixth floor. Like most of us, he had no problem recognizing the bills, courtesy of his local utilities and his many credit card companies, but when he came across a neatly handwritten envelope with no return address declaring its sender, he eyeballed the calligraphic penmanship with an apprehensive uneasiness.
“Hmmm, I wonder what this is all about. This one definitely isn’t junk mail…and the handwriting looks oddly familiar,” contemplated Newlan as he ambled his way off the elevator.
Egged on by a worrisome itch of curiosity, as soon as Newlan stepped back into the privacy of his condo he immediately ripped open the neatly framed letter, which we have already had the chance to preview, and he was so stunned by what he was reading that the words left him literally shaking in his shoes and gasping for air; it was almost as if he had been punched in the gut and had the wind knocked out of him.
Newlan plopped down on his leather sofa and reread the letter at least ten times, until finally the swirling tides of emotion began to overflow within him, leaving his head spinning in confusion.
“A letter from Marianne…after all these years…just when I’ve started having dreams about her again…just when I realized I’m still not over her…just when I’m trying to convince myself that I should marry Janis Barry…just when I’m losing my mind over this fuckin’ murder trial…a trial about a love triangle no less…man you can’t make this shit up,” lamented a trembling Newlan, and by now he was practically in tears.
Then, in an apparent attempt to validate the fact that he wasn’t still dreaming, Newlan pounded his fist on the coffee table and wailed at the top of his lungs; “You can’t make this fuckin’ shit up.”
Newlan was the first to admit that he may have been slightly obsessed with Marianne Plante at one time. Sure, maybe there was a period in his life when he sent her an endless stream of cards and letters, even though he never got one response in return. And sure, maybe there were times when he’d drive by her house late at night just to be near her aura. And sure, maybe there was a stretch of a few years when he’d ask anyone and everyone who had ever crossed paths with her if they had any idea of what she was up to. But that was all ancient history as far as he was concerned.
For the most part, Newlan really was pretty much over Marianne Plante --
or so he thought until recently -- but he had to go through hell and back before regaining even the smallest step of an unsteady footing in his jagged world; he had to hit rock bottom before getting up off the mat and making something of his life; he had to fend off his demons and keep on fighting them right up until this very day.
“Sure I still have dreams about her now and then, but I can’t control my subconscious,” rationalized Newlan, who at the moment wasn’t quite sure whether he loved or hated the very thought of Marianne Plante.
“And now…what could this letter mean?” wondered Newlan. As far as he could discern, the contents of the letter appeared to be rather ambiguous. Was she just innocently saying hello? Was she saying goodbye? Was she looking for a lover? Was she looking for a friend?
“Or maybe she’s as confused as ever,” reasoned Newlan as he deliberated with himself, back and forth, until he was blue in the face…and then finally he snapped.
“What the hell does she want from me?” cried Newlan as he wistfully rued the day that he ever met this enigmatic woman whose memory had haunted him for more than half his life. And yet, despite these many conflicted emotions, he was intrigued. After all, Plante was the first and only woman he ever truly loved; a life-defining experience that most people never completely forget, or completely recover from, for that matter.
And so with his inquisitiveness piqued, Newlan unsteadily rose from his sofa, and as if by rote, he dug deep into his vast music collection until he found a dusty old cassette tape, the only other copy of “Marianne’s Mix Tape” in existence, and he popped it into his ancient cassette player, just as Plante had done when she composed the fateful letter which he now held in his hands.
However, the only not so subtle difference between their listening experiences was that Newlan decided to play side B of the tape, “Breakup Songs” as opposed to side A “Love Songs”, and he quietly sang along as his own scratchy voice came drifting out of the speakers.
After all the countless hours that Newlan had spent over the course of his life devoted to writing songs, he still considered this mournful ballad, which he authored oh so many years ago, entitled “Fade Away”, to be the saddest tune he had ever penned. He had dedicated the somber anthem to Marianne Plante close to two decades ago, but even now the words still rang true. The lyrics, which were meant to convey a message to Plante that although he might be struggling to get over her, she could rest assured that he would get by somehow, someway…and somehow, someway, he was getting by, albeit just barely.
But now, as he listened to this autobiographical song of desperation and hope for the first time in ages, all the erstwhile emotions came rushing back to him, and he was once again reduced to a shell of a man. Once again he collapsed in a heap onto his leather sofa, and he clutched the letter to his chest as he tearfully whispered these words:
FADE AWAY (words and music by Frank Newlan)
The sun he hasn’t shined for days
The smile has seemed to left your gaze
I don’t care what no one says
I put my dreams on delay
Work my ass off everyday
The boss won’t even raise my pay
Might as well take a break
The more you make, the more they take
They’ll tax your soul for Heaven’s sake
CHORUS
Someday my friend
You know I’m gonna fade away
Someway my friend
You know I gotta fade away
I think of you all the time
A memory I can’t leave behind
Out of sight but never out of mind
Ten years have come and gone
The pain keeps going, on and on
Girl we’ve been apart for much too long
I keep your picture in my wallet
Though it hurts too much to look at it
I’m falling apart, bit by bit
CHORUS
Someday my friend
You know I’m gonna fade away
Someway my friend
You know I gotta fade away
BRIDGE
Fade into the sunset
Fade into the sea
My bags are packed
I shant be back
Won’t you light a torch for me girl
Won’t you light a torch for me
Everyday’s a dull routine
I wake up to the same old dream
Of you and me, it’s the same old scene
I tell myself that I’ll forget
But it just aint happened yet
I’ve loved you since the day we met
I just can’t seem to shake it
I don’t know if I can take it
But I think I’m gonna make it anyway
CHORUS
Someday my friend
You know I’m gonna fade away
Someway my friend
You know I gotta fade away
I’m running out of words to say
I’m running out of songs to play
You’re all that I’ve got…today
Emotion has been betrayed
The truth is put on display
This time I hope you’re here to stay
I need to be touched in a special way
God you seem so far away
I think I’m gonna sleep all day
CHORUS
Someday my friend
You know I’m gonna fade away
Someway my friend
You know I gotta fade away
BRIDGE
Fade into the sunset
Fade into the sea
My bags are packed
I shant be back
Won’t you light a torch for me girl
Won’t you light a torch for me
The sun he hasn’t shined for days
The smile has seemed to left your gaze
I don’t care what no one says
When Newlan originally wrote this poignant clump of lyrics some 20 odd years ago, he could never have imagined that they would be such a harbinger of things to come, right down to the fact that he still kept a picture of Plante in his wallet, although he rarely ever so much as even took a peek at the old photo, because doing so really would pain him to the very core of his soul.
As the hand-picked songs that comprised the tape played on, Newlan vividly recollected his trepidation as he dropped off the package containing Plante’s copy of the recording at the Post Office, and he still remembered her reaction as if it was yesterday, even though it was lo so many moons ago.
Newlan still recalled every word Plante said to him when she called him on the phone and sobbed, “Frankie no one’s ever written a song for me before. They’re so beautiful…and at the same time, they’re so sad…I’m so sad. But I need to be alone right now…I need to find myself. Please don’t wait for me Frankie. You deserve to be with someone who can give her heart and soul to you…and I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to live up to your expectations.”
And up until this very moment, that was the last time Frank Newlan had ever heard from Marianne Plante.
…
Newlan closed his eyes and his mind drifted back to his junior year in high school, and in his lucidity he shined on the flickering image of a group of giggling freshmen girls walking down the hall, including the cutest little lass he had ever laid his eyes on, Marianne Plante…surely, it was love at first sight.
Even now, after all of the pain and disappointment he had endured, Newlan still believed in the concept of love at first sight based on his initial encounter with Marianne Plante all those years ago, and nothing anyone had ever said or done could convince him otherwise.
Meeting girls came easy to Frank Newlan in those days, and he had absolutely no fear of making a fool of himself as he approached the sweet young freshmen and asked, “hey ladies, what’s so funny? How about letting me in on the joke?”
Of course, even in those days, Newl
an was aided by a little bit of the “wacky tobaccy”. But regardless of his methods, he had never truly experienced the sting of rejection yet in his young life, and so he was supremely confident that he would become acquainted with Ms. Marianne Plante…and as we have come to find out, over time they did in fact develop an enduring relationship.
In the peak of their adolescence, Plante and Newlan had been struck with an instant attraction towards each other. She would often tell him how handsome he was, and he in turn would slobber all over her. But of course, he made sure to lavish her with praise only when his friends weren’t within earshot, lest they accuse him of “being pussy-whipped by the little freshman babe”.
Plante’s many physical attributes included her long, silky smooth, straight black hair, her big brown eyes, her beautiful smile, her smooth alabaster skin, and to top it all off, her petite little body was just the type that Newlan favored. In short she was everything he could ever imagine or want in a woman.
For the most part, Plante and Newlan weren’t much more than bosom buddies during his last two years of high school. And although he was totally enamored of her, he was still cognizant of the fact that she was still an innocent little virgin who taught Sunday school at Saint Joseph’s Catholic Church, and yet at the same time there was something about her that aroused him like no other.
Then one morning during Newlan’s senior year in high school (at the annual Medford vs. Malden Thanksgiving Day football game to be exact) he observed that Plante was absentmindedly fondling a keychain she had recently purchased with the phrase “A Hug Would Make My Day” etched into it, and so, urged on by a couple of shots of whiskey, he instinctively hugged her…and she hugged him back.
And at the precise moment when their bodies embraced, Newlan felt something erupt inside of him that made him weak at the knees. It was more than just physical; it was more than just young lust; it was more than just raging hormones; it was love. Newlan was sure it was love, and he knew in his heart-of-hearts, even at the tender age of seventeen, that this was the woman he wanted to marry.
A few months later, another similarly sensual scene occurred during Newlan’s last bittersweet winter as a high school student, just after he had gotten his driver’s license. It was a snowy afternoon in February when he found himself in the trusted possession of his mother’s automobile, and he gentlemanly offered Plante a ride home from their after school activities. And as they hurriedly hopped into the vehicle in an effort to escape the frozen chill in the air, Plante shivered uncontrollably and complained, “It’s so cold outside.”
Newlan responded by extending his arms towards her and playfully replying, “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm my little sweetheart.”
And Plante didn’t resist. On the contrary, she wrapped her arms around him, and before they knew what hit them they were engaged in an awkward yet passionate kiss, or as passionate as two teenagers could get.
It was Marianne Plante’s first real kiss, and it stirred something within her that frightened her, and yet at the same time it excited her.
Plante avoided Newlan for months on end after their maiden kiss because she was confused by her feelings, and he in turn was confused because she was giving him the cold shoulder. And so his separation anxiety, his depression, his deeply rooted obsession with the girl of his dreams subliminally began to take root before he had even left the fabled halls of high school.
But time marches on and soon Newlan’s senior year came to an end. And as he was about to graduate and move away to a college dorm in Boston, out of the blue, Marianne Plante, one day became friendly with him again as if nothing had ever happened between them.
Plante even came to Newlan’s high school graduation ceremony, where she gave him the “Jesus on the Cross” religious medallion that he still wears to this day; and they laughed, and they hugged, and they had fun, just as kids that age are supposed to. But all the while they both realized that they were growing up fast, and they desperately wished that they could somehow stop the hands of time.
Newlan and Plante became closer than ever during that coming-of-age summer before he departed for college, and they even went on a few ‘real’ dates.
Newlan didn’t particularly care for formal events so he decided to skip his prom. However, after taking Plante out to dinner at a fancy restaurant, dressed to the nines, he wished that he had asked her to go with him so that he could have preserved a few nostalgic photos of themselves all dolled up in fancy gowns and tuxedos. But still, all in all, they were having a wonderful summer together.
Then one magical night in late August of Newlan and Plante’s summer of love, before the end of their innocence, as they sat on an old blanket out in a quiet, dark, deserted corner of the park across the street from his parents’ house, meditatively gazing up at the constellation of planets we call the universe, a sprinkle of stardust seemed to hover over them.
And after an hour or so of resting his head in Plante’s lap, Newlan decided to pull out his guitar and pluck a few chords. At this point he was still a beginner so he couldn’t really play very well, but he was still able to piece together a simple, silly love song, and he croon his heart out for his young girlfriend’s pleasure.
“I’m too proud to beg, I’m too proud to borrow, I’m too proud to tell you, I need you for every tomorrow, I’m too proud to laugh, I’m too proud to cry, I love you baby but I just don’t know why.”
“Oh Frankie that’s so sweet,” gushed Plante as she gave Newlan a peck on the cheek.
Newlan face was glowing in a hue of crimson red, and as Plante took his hands, she confessed; “Frankie you’re so shy and sensitive sometimes…and that’s what I love about you.”
And Newlan instantly picked up on Plante’s choice of words.
“That’s the first time she ever said she loved me…although it could just be a figure of speech,” mused Newlan as he and Plante stared into each other’s eyes.
Newlan often got lost in Plante’s beautiful big brown eyes, and he was just starting to zone-out when she leaned towards him and gave him a passionate kiss, a kiss that boldly stated, “I’m ready to become a woman.” And much to his surprise, they both tenderly lost their virginity on that old blanket, at their favorite local hangout, with the warm summer breeze blowing through their hair, and the stars watching over them.
Newlan had already had a handful of encounters with a couple of senior sluts, where he got to first base, but he had never experienced anything like this before, and afterwards as he and Plante lay down on the blanket, he wondered how he was ever going to be able to get through college without her. And as if she were reading his mind, Plante teasingly whispered, “you didn’t think I was gonna let you go off to college without something to remember me by did you?”
And truth be told, the first two years of college were rough for Newlan without his sweetheart by his side. But somehow he got through those hazy days, and he saw more and more of Plante when he was home for the holidays and over the summertime, which helped to keep him going.
Newlan even took Plante to her own senior prom. But as she got ready to go off to college in the western Massachusetts town of Amherst, she gave him something else to remember. Unfortunately this time it wasn’t such a fond memory. She broke up with him on the premise that they should see other people as part of the college lifestyle.
“If it’s meant to be, we’ll find each other after college,” explained Plante, but as Newlan packed for his junior year of college, he carried with him a broken heart.
However, despite his heavy heart, Newlan managed to graduate from college with honors, and as Plante predicted, in time they did stumble back down the same road as young adults in a somewhat more serious relationship.
Those years back in the early to mid 80’s were some of the best days of Frank Newlan and Marianne Plante’s lives, and yet somewhere along the way, a restlessness filled their hearts…and they slowly drifted apart,
neither of them quite sure why.
Maybe they were just too young. Maybe they needed to find themselves. Maybe they simply weren’t ready for a long-term commitment. Maybe he drank too much. Or maybe it was utterly a force beyond their control. But whatever the reason, they stopped seeing each other. They never even officially broke up, but one day they woke up, and just like that, they stopped seeing each other.
The young ex-couple occasionally kept in touch over the next few years, and unbeknownst to the other, they both felt that something was still stirring inside. But ultimately neither one of them had the strength to try again and run the risk of enduring the inevitable pain that comes along with the fleeting moments of pleasure.
Newlan went on his well documented tailspin during that period, but somehow he came out of it with his soul intact, while at the same time the innocent little Miss Marianne Plante, who never so much as took a sip of alcohol before, had her own demons to contend with.
Life’s trials and tribulations took their toll on Plante, and she eventually resorted to the all too adult solution of booze and pills and cigarettes to try to kill the ache in her heart.
And so when Frank Newlan eventually reached the point in his recovery where he was able to muster up the courage to send Marianne Plante a package containing the aforementioned cassette tape and a letter that basically said goodbye, and when Marianne Plante responded with her tearful phone call, they both assumed that it was the last chapter in their sad story.
But little did they know that it was just a long interlude; just a prolonged pause. Like Rip Van Winkle waking up after years of sleep…little did they know that it was just a long nap before an all-night party…little did they know that their paths…would one day cross again.
As we have learned thus far in our story, during those many years in between correspondences, Plante and Newlan actually did get their lives in order to some degree. Plante met the man she thought she loved and she was blessed by the Lord above with two wonderful daughters, while Newlan hardened his heart and somehow picked up the pieces of his shattered life; a life that revolved around his stubborn habits and his mundane routines; a life that centered on the successful career that he had miraculously managed to build for himself; a life devoted to his daily rituals…and his foolish dreams.
…
In the blink of an eye Newlan’s life flashed before him so fast that it was as if he were watching a VHS tape set on high-speed rewind. But just as he was about to get completely swallowed up by his past, he was jolted back to reality when side B of “Marianne’s Mix Tape” ran its course and the tape player clicked to a stop.
All of a sudden Newlan was in no mood to read the newspaper anymore, so he gingerly lifted himself up and turned on the Sunday morning blues radio program, and then he lay back down on the sofa and closed his eyes to the world.
Newlan eventually drifted off into a magical, dream filled sleep, running hand in hand through a field of flowers with his lover, Marianne Plante, until the sun went down. There they were, nestled on that tattered blanket of their youth, with the moon smiling down on them, while at the same time, the voice of an old blues singer, moaning out an even older blues song, drifted from his stereo speakers and settled into a dark narrow crevice somewhere deep within his subconscious mind.
“I’ve been dealing with a demon, been dealing with a Satan, I’ve been dealing with a demon, my baaaby child…she don’t love me no more.”
From the Eyes of a Juror Page 42