Ann
Friday, July 3, 1964, Paris. Like the Sorbonne, the Louvre loomed cold and uninviting. Its stone exterior and granite public square made a drab welcome. Inside, I couldn’t possibly remember all the masterpieces Terry insisted I see. Nor could I relay his suggestions to Jack. Yet fewer than twenty minutes after we began the tour, as I circled the Venus de Milo, I blurted, “Terry said we should study this piece from every angle to get the full impact.”
Jack’s pained look stopped me short. He stood as frozen as the sculptures around us.
“Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. I bowed my head against his arm. He jerked it away.
After the tour, we circled back to the Mona Lisa, pushing into the crowd to get a closer look. Jack muttered, “I know why she’s smiling.” His first words since my thoughtless remark.
I cocked a cautious eye toward him. “You do?”
“She has two suitors. If one doesn’t work out, she can reel in the other, just like—”
It hit me like a blow to the jaw. Or was he trying to be funny? “You keeping score? If you are, you’re way ahead.”
We clumped our way back through the Grand Gallery, side by side, but not together. I ground to a halt. “Neither of us wants this. We need to talk. Let’s go outside.”
“Only the two of us? No third-party rivals?”
“I can promise not to bring him up again. How about you?”
“Of course!” He spat it out like a wad of day-old bubble gum.
Jack got his daypack from the baggage check, and we stomped along the Seine. At a quiet spot in the Tuileries Garden, we plunked down on the grass and glared at each other.
“I’ll start,” I said. “When I first fantasized about this trip, I was Cinderella at the ball. I ignored the fact I’m not perfect, that I do dumb things . . . like I did in there. I’m deeply sorry. Please forgive me.”
He glowered.
Okay, I’d carry this by myself until he got his mind in the right place. “We dreamed up this trip to meet the real people behind the fairy tale—with our flaws and weaknesses—and to decide if we really could ride into the future together. If we—”
“I know all that. I just want you to—”
I held my hand up like a school-crossing guard. “Not finished.” He snapped his jaw shut. “So far, I’ve found so many things to love about you. How you love learning. How you see the world. How you appreciate art and literature and history and travel. Your attention to detail.”
“Well, I—”
I raised the stop sign. He crossed his arms. “We don’t know yet if we can solve problems together. Will we find resolutions that bring us closer? Or ways to get even and get our way? If it’s the latter, I don’t want it. I don’t think you do either. My comment at the Venus de Milo was thoughtless. And at the Mona Lisa, I blurted out that nonsense about keeping score in anger. That’s not me. I hope you’ll stick around long enough to find out.”
“You finished?” His voice and expression were softer.
“No, I’m not.” Sometimes, when provoked, I slip into a cool fog, and if I wait, I can draw out the right words. “I know I can’t say the painful truths,” I said, “the things that might hurt someone’s feelings. I get mealy-mouthed. Okay, even devious. It’s a flaw I work on constantly. But in my perfect world, we could talk to each other. If one of us did something hurtful or annoying or infuriating, we could request—and receive—forgiveness. That’s the life I want with the man I marry. What I won’t accept is for us to bury hurts inside and let them steam until they erupt like lava.” Our eyes met. He really was listening. “Now I’m finished.”
“You sure?” He was asking permission, no innuendo, no anger. “Injecting my rival into our trip was a kick in the gut. As bad as my anxiety last spring over how I could beat out my rivals when you were so far away. I was on the torture racks for months, waiting forever for each letter.”
Guilt slammed me. His pained pleas for me to write stampeded out of the past:
Mailman let me down again today; empty mailbox is depressing . . . In a bitter mood yesterday because you didn’t write . . . can’t understand why you don’t write more often; I remain starved for news from you. I have begun sending my letters to you from the main post office so our company clerk won’t see how often I write you, compared with how often you write me.
I kissed his hand, held it to my bowed forehead. “You’ve laid bare another fault. I am so sorry. I have no right to ask forgiveness for my callous-ness—then or now.” I took a deep breath. “Is there more?”
“Gretchen tightened the noose. She warned me about him. About Terry. I refused to believe her. I was a fool. She was trying to protect me. When you finally came, you confirmed it. But since that night in Füssen and on our campout, it’s been paradise. Now, in the middle of this great trip, you wound me with him again. How could you?”
I couldn’t look up, not until I got my tears under control. When he paused for breath, I tried to apologize, but my voice deserted me.
“I reacted poorly,” he said. “I hope you know that’s not me, either. Forgive me?”
Forgive him? For all the pain I had caused? No, forgive me. I’d be more sensitive, more caring, if only he would forgive me. I wanted to tell him that. The words stuck in my throat. I finally looked at him, nodded, and squeaked, “Anything else?”
He shook his head.
I had promised we would talk only about the two of us, no Terry invading our time together. But I loved them both. The less said, the better.
Except that didn’t work either. Each deserved to know how much he meant to me. Even at this moment, Terry was probably haunting the mailbox, waiting for a letter. What would I tell him? Don’t worry, Jack and I are having a splendid time. At the Louvre, we saw Venus de Milo. Loved it! Or, Jack and I slept together in that tiny tent and in the same hotel bed. But don’t worry, Ter, we didn’t do anything.
Of course, I couldn’t say that. But if I didn’t tell Terry about the tour, what could I tell him? I’d struggled with the same thing when Jack and I went to Neuschwanstein. I had written, “Went to Bavaria for the weekend.” No pronoun, no subject. How deceptive. And from an English teacher.
I edged closer to Jack on the grass. I still had his hand in a death grip. Despite kids racing about in the garden, cars honking in the distance, and people yakking, our silence swallowed all other sound. Tears still threatened. No, sir, I would not cry. I wouldn’t. I clamped my eyes shut. A shameless tear ran free and slithered down my chest. I did my best to ignore it.
At last, I found my voice. “Jack, I have no magic wand to make this less painful and no crystal ball to see what our future holds. One thing is sure, though. Being with you makes me happy beyond words. When I hurt you, it’s as if I have driven a knife into my own heart.”
Now he was holding both my hands.
“But we have a choice,” I said. “We can dwell on misery. Or seize the moments we have and squeeze every bit of joy out of them. What shall it be?”
Just then a soccer ball careened toward me. I shut my eyes. Before it smacked me in the face, Jack caught it and threw it back to a gang of wild boys. One of them booted it back. Jack jumped up and kicked it into play. Next thing, he was sprinting back and forth with them.
“Americain! Americain!” one boy shouted, waving his arms wildly. “Par ici!”
Jack bopped the ball with his knee toward the kid, and it went high. The kid leaped and bonked it with his head back to Jack. Jack kicked wild. Another boy snagged it and dribbled it back toward Jack. With whoops and hollers, the boys delighted in targeting the willing American. The game stoked thoughts about Jack as a father . . . to our kids. I cheered him on.
Soon, Jack bailed out of the jumble and rejoined me, aglow, but puffing. “Whew, soccer isn’t my sport. Hope I didn’t embarrass myself. Okay, where were we? Ah yes, ‘squeeze the joy.’ Great idea—if it involves you and me. I apologize f
or being so morose.”
Right there in broad daylight, he kissed me. A friendly smooch, mind you, not a passionate I-love-you pas de deux that melded our souls, but it was there for all the public to witness. “And now, would mademoiselle care to join me for a picnic?” he said.
We pulled out our cheeses, bread, and fruits, talking what-ifs as we watched the kids play. If we had kids of our own, Jack said, “I want museums and art galleries to be as much a part of their lives as playgrounds and ball fields and hiking trails. When I get assigned to the Pentagon, we’ll take them to a Smithsonian every weekend.”
His newfound cheer transported me back to Cinderella’s ball. Midnight hadn’t come. “And I hope you’ll be a model for our kids,” I said. “Show them they can accomplish whatever they set their minds to, especially our girls, like Dad did for me. You’ll also teach our daughters to play sports, won’t you? I was a klutz, the last chosen for grade school teams. But it’s not too late. I’m sure I could learn to throw a ball or keep my eyes open when a ball comes at me. Baseball, tennis, volleyball, you name it, I shut my eyes.”
“So I noticed. I’ll make that my first challenge.”
We moseyed beyond the park, wound up on the Champs Élysées, and ate at a sidewalk café. A strolling violinist serenaded us with “Mimi’s Song.”
That evening, the sunset painted the clouds in rosy and purple hues. We stood transfixed at our hotel window, Jack behind me, cradling me in his arms. As dusk settled over the city, I turned to face him. “The best shows in town are free.”
We kissed. He nuzzled down my neck and across the expanse above my sundress and kissed the straps off my shoulders. “Shall we get ready for bed?” he asked.
“Is that a logistics plan? Or an invitation?”
“Which do you prefer?” He traced the line of my neck out to my shoulders.
“An invitation.”
“Okay, you’re invited. First, I want to give you a proper back rub.”
It was a long kissing back rub, a long kissing bare back rub.
Between kisses and strokes, we changed into our nightclothes. For an encore, he delivered a soothing leg massage, from my tired feet to my panty line. My every cell saluted. “Best massages I’ve ever had,” I whispered. “How can I ever repay you?”
He lay down beside me. His eyes lit up. My naiveté had done me in again. I held my breath.
He stared at me for a moment, eyes intense. “Let’s do it again tomorrow night.”
“You are a sly one, Lieutenant Sigg. A nightly treat, eh? Okay, deal.” I felt a telltale thumping against my hip and inched out of range. “But you need to rein in your second lieutenant. If you don’t want him court-martialed.”
“I’ll do what I can, ma’am, but he’s such an independent prick, that guy. I’ll give him a talking to.” He looked down. “Second Lieutenant! At ease!”
8
Bumps on the Way to Saint-Tropez
Ann
Saturday, July 4, 1964, on the road from Paris. Jack and I had planned to spend the whole day at Versailles, but by midmorning, the gardens were elbow-to-elbow tourists. Besides, we’d already overdosed on opulence in King Ludwig’s Bavarian castles. Before noon we were hurtling south for the French Riviera: Saint-Tropez.
By afternoon, a steady drizzle forced Jack to put the top up. No wind to snatch away our words or frazzle my hairdo. I pulled my Füssen scarf off, shook out my mop, and tucked the scarf around my bare knees below my shorts. Jack cocked an eyebrow.
“It’s chilly,” I said. Shivering, I rolled my shirt sleeves down and buttoned them around my wrists.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve ordered sunshine and calm waters.” He started humming and then stopped abruptly. “You did pack your monokini, didn’t you?”
“My what?”
“Your new topless bathing suit. They’re all the rage in Saint-Tropez.”
“Topless? You’re kidding, right?”
“No. I saw it in Sports Illustrated.”
“That’s an impeccable source. Sure it wasn’t Playboy?”
“No, really, even feminists promote it. ‘It strips away all this angst over Victorian hang-ups and permits women to express themselves freely.’ One of them said that.”
“You think I can’t express myself? But I could if I paraded around half-naked?”
“Not at all. But you’d look great in one. You could show Brigitte Bar-dot a thing or two—like how to present yourself on a beach, looking gorgeous, not cheap. She lives in Saint-Tropez, you know. It’s not how much you show—it’s how you show it. Hope is what turns heads.”
What a crock! Not “everyone” was wearing one. It made the news because it was shocking. And me showing Brigitte Bardot a thing or two? “Really? And what exactly do you hope for?”
“That I convince you to become the woman of my dreams, someone who—”
“Who looks hot in half a bathing suit?”
“No. One who embraces a shared future. The bathing suit’s a bonus.”
“Tell you what, Lieutenant. I’d love to ‘embrace a shared future.’ But why would I have to bare my tits to do that?” I cringed. How did that word pop out?
Jack blanched and stared straight ahead, stone-faced.
“Sorry, guy, that was crude.”
“Tits? I don’t use gutter language, Ann. Haven’t you figured that out?”
“Sure. But you hit a sore spot, and my mouth outran my brain. I wasn’t alone, I might add. Me in a monokini? On a public beach? Never!”
I looked for a crack in his demeanor. Nothing but the steely profile of his jaw, eyes glued to the road.
“That’s drunken-sailor talk. It’s not you, not the girl I’ve come to love. You shocked me. Pretty cheeky.”
“You’re right. It’s not me. But ‘cheek’ isn’t the story here.”
For a few minutes, the rhythm of the windshield wipers was the only sound in our Sting Ray cocoon. What was the story? What had gotten into me? I had to think. And fast.
Sure, women’s attitudes were changing. I’d read a feminist rant or two decrying society’s insistence that a woman cover her breasts in settings appropriate to nudity—when nursing a baby, for example. Breasts, they argued, were natural parts of every woman’s body, not sex totems to be shrouded. In fact, what was wrong with sunning naked on a secluded rock in Boulder Creek? Or skinny-dipping?
I still relished the thrill I got when my high school girlfriends and I paddled out of view on Lake Garda near Verona and liberated ourselves from our bathing suits. The water swirling around my naked body was sensual beyond belief. In fact, thinking about it made me want to do it again.
Good thing Jack couldn’t read my thoughts. Derailed by my remark, he’d slowed down, and the roar of a passing Porsche on the French freeway had drowned out debate. Jack followed suit, hitting the gas, and was now in a breathtaking sprint to dominate the road—as my own thoughts on bare breasts, nudity, and sex raced ahead.
Many of my friends at CU had been active sexually. My roommate Julie huffed, “I’m not giving out anything. I have sex because it feels great. Why shouldn’t I enjoy it as much as men?”
With one foot testing the sixties, I, too, resented the canard that a sexually active woman was a “slut,” yet a sexually active man was a “stud.” But for me it was a hairpin turn from nudity at a secluded mountain stream to casual sex with uncommitted partners. Too many men saw partial nudity as a full-throttle green flag, each risqué step leading inexorably to the next. “Free love” wasn’t love at all. It diminished the most precious gift a woman—or a man—could save for a spouse. Was I too straitlaced, captive to my Sunday school mindset? Where and how could I draw the line?
Finally, I spoke up. “Honestly, bathing suits aren’t the point. Society uses sex to sell everything from cigarettes to cars, and now it’s the endgame on casual dates. I think we—”
He slowed down again, letting the Porsche go. “I don’t think of you as a ‘casual’ date.” H
e paused and added softly, “Never have.”
“Good thing.” I turned toward him. “I didn’t fly halfway round the world for—”
“As for sex—which I prefer to think of as making love—sex with you would be anything but casual. More like sublime.” He shot me a quick glance. “The purest expression of my love.”
Whoosh! His dreamy smile whisked away the dank cloud that had settled over us. Still, I couldn’t let this tiff slip away without him truly understanding where I stood. “I’m sure when the time comes, it will be heavenly,” I said. “But here are my concerns. First, biology. Simply put, women get pregnant. Men don’t.” Gretchen’s image popped into mind. “And second, society. Women bear the consequences—shame, birth, motherhood. Men can waltz away.”
He frowned. “I’m not a rat! Besides, there’s protection, so—”
“Oh, sure. The Pill. I know that line. ‘C’mon, baby, it’s one hundred percent safe. Guaranteed.’ One hundred percent? Nothing’s infallible. Bonner and Gretchen proved that.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. “Bonner’s my best friend, but we’re miles apart on that score.”
“I believe that, but we can’t let this delicious attraction we have for each other override common sense. What if I got pregnant? Sneak off to have our baby and give it up for adoption, as I so piously urged Gretchen to do? A shotgun wedding? An abortion?”
Memory lobbed other examples of the perils of unbridled sex: Terry and his Rachael. My dorm-mate Lila. She disappeared for months and gave up twins for adoption. And Terry’s Laura Lee, getting stuck raising her child by herself. A smart girl, trapped into single motherhood before she could go to college. I hadn’t met Laura Lee, but her story had affected me deeply. No, I wouldn’t run that risk until I was certain I’d found my soul mate. “Think about it. How could I tell Mom and Dad I’m pregnant? How could we?”
Jack’s scowl returned. “You know I wouldn’t put you—us—in that position.”
“Not on purpose. But I’ve seen too many accidental pregnancies. And I don’t want gossips counting the months between the wedding and my baby’s birth. Or kids chanting, ‘Here comes the bride, big, fat, and wide!’” We both laughed.
A Rendezvous to Remember: A Memoir of Joy and Heartache at the Dawn of the Sixties Page 15
