Rules Get Broken

by John Herbert

  “Well, you don’t have to sit up and behave here.”

  “I don’t have to behave?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Nancy replied, and she gave me a gentle push away from her.

  “Can I ask you something?” I said.

  “Sure. What?”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but you’re such an attractive girl, a beautiful girl. And so much fun to be with. I just don’t understand why you’re not already taken. Why you’re not involved with someone. Maybe not married or engaged, but at least going out with someone seriously. I would’ve thought someone would’ve scoffed you up in a minute. And yet, here you are with me.”

  “I told you why the first night we went out. Every guy I’ve ever dated turned out to be a disappointment in one way or another. Usually even before the first date was over.”

  “Is it possible you expect too much from people?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think so at all, as a matter of fact. I know what I want in a man, and it shouldn’t be that hard to find. Although it has been so far,” she added wistfully.

  “What are you looking for? If you don’t mind telling me.”

  “Funny you should ask, because my mother and I had a conversation along the same lines just a few weeks ago.”

  Nancy turned the stem of her wine glass slowly between her fingers, searching for the right words to describe very personal feelings. “I’m looking for someone,” she began slowly, “who makes me feel good about myself. Someone who respects me. Who treats me like a lady. Someone I’m attracted to. Mentally and physically. Someone I’m not intimidated by. Someone I can talk to. And someone who will listen to me when I do.”

  “That’s it?” I asked, feigning incredulity.

  “That’s it,” Nancy replied with a shrug of her shoulders and a toss of her head. “That’s the man I’m hoping to find someday.”

  “Well, I’m sure you will. You just have to be patient. Who knows? Maybe he’ll find you.”

  “Maybe. But sometimes I wonder if things would work out even if he did come along.”

  “Why would you wonder something like that? You’re attractive. You’re smart. Funny. Why wouldn’t things work out if you found the right person?”

  “I told you already.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Because I don’t have a lot of experience with men. As a matter of fact…”

  Nancy looked at me and stared directly into my eyes. She seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to continue. She was still looking directly into my eyes when she started to speak again.

  “You are looking at a twenty-five-year-old woman who is still a virgin—hard though that may be to believe in this day and age.”

  She took a deep breath. Her face was flushed.

  “I kind of assumed that from some of the things you’ve said,” I replied.

  “I’ve actually wondered at times,” she continued, “if something’s wrong with me. Not because I’m still a virgin, but because I need to find the right person first. There are times when I almost feel like a freak or something. All of my friends have had sex, and they all know what it’s like. But I haven’t, and I don’t. At the same time something—call it my moral compass if you want—won’t let me get involved with someone that way if I know he’s not the person I’m looking for. Waiting for. Does any of this make any sense at all?”

  “What you’re saying makes perfect sense,” I said, amazed by her candor. “And what’s so terrible about still being a virgin? Sure, kind of rare these days for someone your age, but as far as I’m concerned, a beautiful thing. You’re saving yourself for the right person. That’s all. And that’s good. Nothing to be ashamed of. Something to be proud of. Nothing wrong with you if that’s the position you take. Someday that special person will come along, the time will be right, and…you’ll want to give him that gift. Believe me. Just be patient.”

  Nancy nodded and looked away. We sat perfectly still, Nancy staring at a spot on the opposite wall, me staring at Nancy, thinking how beautiful she was. She was sitting at an angle to me, one bare leg tucked up under the other. The top two buttons of her shirt were open, exposing her throat and upper chest, but the shirt added an element of mystery by revealing nothing else. I was certain that in her mind she was adequately dressed—and she was. But I couldn’t get past the thought that she was wearing only a shirt. And that bothered me. I shook my head in an attempt to get rid of that thought and broke what had become a silence of more than a minute.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  She turned towards me. “At that moment I was thinking about our ride home from Caminari’s. About what you did to my fingers.”

  “And?”

  “I was thinking about how terrified I was. How I didn’t know if it was right or wrong to let you do that. Part of me said it was wrong. But it was so tender, I couldn’t pull my hand away. I was afraid to let you keep doing it, but I was more afraid to ask you to stop.” Nancy shivered. “Why did you do that?” she asked very seriously. “I mean, wasn’t that a very intimate thing to do?”

  “It was. And totally inappropriate. I apologize. Really, I do.”

  I took a sip of wine and returned Nancy’s steady gaze. Her eyes were searching my face for something, and I wondered what she was looking for.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You are.”

  “I’m not.”

  “May I kiss you?”

  “Yes.”

  She closed her eyes, and I kissed her softly. Her lips were warm and dry. I drew away. Her eyes remained closed. I kissed her again. Harder. I ran my fingers through her hair and buried my face in it and smelled her shampoo and her skin. I kissed her ear, behind her ear, the side of her neck, under her chin, her lips again. A harder, wetter kiss.

  I stopped. Nancy opened her eyes, and she looked deeply into mine. So deeply.

  I kissed her forehead, her throat, then the base of her throat, as low as the denim shirt allowed. I reached for the top button of the denim shirt and unbuttoned it.

  Nancy held me tighter. She kissed the side of my face once, twice, three times.

  I buried my face between the denim folds and felt Nancy’s skin against my lips. The smell of soap and perfume and Nancy enveloped me once again. I unbuttoned the next button. Slowly. Painfully slowly. The folds of the denim shirt began to part.

  Nancy looked at me with a strange look. Was it a look of sadness? Desire? Or was it a look of having finally arrived somewhere?

  “Are you sure this is okay?” I asked softly.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her breath hot in my ear. “I’m sure.”

  Sixty-Five

  I started my drive home from Nancy’s apartment shortly after two-thirty Sunday morning. I drove in silence, the only sounds the low hum of the engine, the higher-pitched hum of the tires on concrete, and the rhythmic clunk as they crossed expansion joints in the road surface. I’d been tempted to turn on the radio when I left Nancy’s, thinking music would ease the monotony of the drive home and help me stay awake, but I opted for silence instead. I knew the voice would come sooner or later, and I knew silence would enable its arrival, and I reasoned that the sooner it came, the sooner it would leave.

  I shook my head in amazement at what had transpired over the last few hours. I wonder if Nancy’s all right. If she’s happy tonight happened. Or if she’s crying hysterically right now, promising herself she’ll never see me again? I wonder why tonight happened in the first place. Does she think I’m the guy she’s been waiting for?

  I slowed for a red light, came to a complete stop and waited. I looked to my right, then to my left, then straight ahead. Not another car was in sight. I was waiting for traffic to pass that didn’t exist.

  “Nothing to say about tonight?” I said out loud to the voice.

  I braced for an answer, but none came.

  “Wonder what that means.”
/>
  The light changed to green, and I came up to speed slowly, deep in thought.

  “Four weeks ago, you went crazy because I asked Nancy out to dinner. And because I kissed her. And asked if I could take off her dress. And tonight, nothing? Tonight of all nights? Why is that?”

  I pondered my question as I drove past darkened homes, one after another. I wondered for a moment if anybody anywhere was still awake. Half a minute later high beams dropping to low beams from a westbound sedan as it rushed by assured me there was.

  “Because tonight was so special? Is that it?” I asked. “Or are you in shock and still trying to figure out what to say? Or was tonight so wrong you’ve simply given up on me?”

  I shook my head impatiently—impatient with myself, impatient with the voice.

  “Or because tonight was so incredibly beautiful? Because nothing so beautiful, so tender could be wrong?”

  I nodded in silent acknowledgement of that thought as I slowed for another red light and then accelerated when the light turned green before I reached the intersection.

  “Is that it?”

  Again no answer.

  I was getting exasperated. I felt foolish talking to myself—the voice —like this, but I needed to know what the voice thought—what I thought.

  “You know,” I said with an air of finality, “if you have something to say, you better say it now, because pretty soon I’m gonna be done listening.”

  The road surface changed from concrete to macadam, and the hum of the tires dropped to a lower pitch. The clunk of the tires hitting expansion joints disappeared, and the hum of the engine seemed to get louder.

  Suddenly the voice filled my head. I’ve given up on you, pal. Simple as that! Because you’re not listening.

  “I always listen,” I replied. “I just don’t always do what you tell me to do.”

  You got that right, the voice agreed.

  “That’s it?” I asked, desperately wishing I weren’t so intent on introspection.

  Oh, there’s more. Lots more. If you think you can handle it. Can you?

  I didn’t answer.

  I’ll take that for a yes, the voice said harshly. I got three points to make, it said after several seconds, and then I’m done.

  First, I find it hard to believe you allowed tonight to happen. What were you thinking? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea how much you’re going to end up hurting this girl?

  Second, talk about taking advantage of someone! You take the cake, my friend. You’re thirty-four. She’s just turned twenty-five. You’ve been married nine years. She’s never been with a man before. Not until tonight at least. You’re a goddamned walking tragedy, and she feels sorry for you. And you let this happen. Unbelievable! You tell yourself tonight was beautiful? Tender? Maybe for you, my friend, but what about Nancy? How’s she going to feel tomorrow morning? How’s she going to feel after giving herself to you when you get your head straight and move on? Did you think about that? Did you? You know you didn’t.

  And third, again I ask—what about Peg? How could you let tonight happen when Peg hasn’t been dead for two months yet? Unbelievable, John. Unbelievable.

  Anyway, you wanted to hear from me, and now you have. And now you can ignore everything I’ve said.

  “I will,” I answered angrily. “You know I will.”

  Yeah, the voice replied, with what I took to be a sigh. I know you will.

  Book Four

  Sixty-Six

  I moved back into our house on Wednesday, October 1st, six weeks and three days from the day Peg died. I had wanted to move back sooner, but first I had to find someone to take care of Jennie and John.

  I placed an ad in the New York Times on Sunday, September 7th, that read “Recently widowed 34-year-old man seeks today’s equivalent of Mary Poppins to care for 3-year-old girl and 8-month-old boy in delightful home in old section of Huntington, Long Island. The children are beautiful and well behaved and desperately need a special someone to take care of them. Are you that someone? If you think you might be, please send resume, references and salary requirements to NYT Box No. 11278.”

  I thought the ad was great. But either the ad wasn’t as good as I thought or the demand for nannies was greater than I knew, because I received no replies that week or the following week or the week after that. A different approach was obviously needed. So on Sunday, September 28th, I pored through the Help Wanted section of the Times, highlighting employment agency ads, my plan being to contact these agencies on Monday morning.

  But my calls Monday morning produced nothing for a multitude of reasons.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Herbert, but we only place people in homes here in Manhattan.”

  Or, “I’m sorry, Mr. Herbert, but no one is going to want to assume responsibility for an eight-month-old. He’s simply too young.”

  Or, “Have you worked with us before, Mr. Herbert? I see. Well, I’m sorry, but we limit our placements to families with whom we’ve worked in the past.”

  Or, “And where is Mrs. Herbert? Oh, I’m so sorry. Well, unfortunately, we have a policy that prevents us from placing anyone in a home occupied by a single male. I do hope you understand.”

  Or, “I’m sorry, but our ad was an attempt to find people. We don’t have anyone to send you now and haven’t had anyone for several weeks. There’s a very strong demand for nannies, you know.”

  And on it went until my last call, to London Personnel. An Elaine Weisman took my call and listened to my story. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Herbert. Both for you and your children.” She paused. “When did Mrs. Herbert pass away?”

  “August 17th,” I replied.

  “And who’s been taking care of the children since then?”

  “My parents. The children and I are living with my parents until I can find someone to take care of them.”

  “I see. Well, maybe we can help. Which is saying something in this market. Anyway, I learned this morning that a woman we placed in a home about two years ago under similar circumstances—the wife died, and the husband needed someone to care for their little boy—has just been let go because the husband has remarried and no longer requires her services. She’s a Jamaican woman, 55, refined, very clean. Honest. Reliable. Very good with children. Has three of her own. Grown up now, of course. We’ve placed her in several homes over the last ten years, and our clients have always found her to be a wonderful addition to their families. Her name is Loretta Roberts. Would you like to meet her?”

  “Yes!” I answered. “Absolutely. How…how do we do this?”

  “You’re in Huntington now, I presume?”

  “No, actually. I’m in Westbury right now. Where I work. I’m calling from my office.”

  “I see. Well, is there a train station nearby? Because if there is and if I’m able to get in touch with Loretta, I can ask her to take a train out to you this afternoon from Brooklyn—where she lives—so you can meet her. And then, if you like her, you can introduce her to the children, show her the house, etc.”

  “Today?”

  “She’s available today, Mr. Herbert, but she won’t be for long, I assure you. If I were you, I’d meet with Loretta this afternoon and hire her immediately if you like her.”

  “Wow. Well, there’s a Long Island Railroad station here in Westbury.”

  “Wonderful! Would you be able to meet her at the station?”

  “Of course. I just need to know what train she’ll be on.”

  “Let me call you back after I reach Loretta, and I’ll give you her arrival time in Westbury then, okay?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Where can I reach you the rest of today?”

  “At my office number. 516-334-6500.”

  “Good. Now, Mr. Herbert, we haven’t talked about Loretta’s salary or about our fee structure yet, so let me take a moment on that. Loretta was making $325 a week at her last position, and I’m certain she’s asking for that now. Is that a problem?”


  “No. That won’t be a problem.”

  “Our fee is four weeks salary, $1,300 in this case, payable after Loretta’ first full week of employment. But the fee is fully refundable if for any reason you’re not satisfied with her performance during her first four weeks with you. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Yes, that’s satisfactory,” I answered, not caring what Loretta cost if she allowed the kids and me to take even one small step in the direction of normalcy.

  “Excellent. Then I’ll talk to you again as soon as I’ve reached Loretta. Good-bye, Mr. Herbert.”

  Sixty-Seven

  At two-forty that afternoon I was standing in front of my car, watching an eastbound train leave the Westbury station. As the last car rolled out, ten or eleven people came out of the doors below the passenger platform. Several of them were men in suits who had probably taken the afternoon off to enjoy this beautiful September day. Four were white women, three in business suits, one in some sort of uniform. The last two people out of the doors were both black women, but one, not as well dressed as the other, immediately got into a waiting taxi. The better-dressed woman stood to the right of the doors, unsure as to where to go next.

  She was about five foot three. Her skin was a very dark brown, and she looked quite trim in a brown skirt, black turtleneck sweater and low heels. She wore her hair in a close-cut Afro and was beginning to show a little gray at the temples. She was attractive and well groomed.

  I crossed the street from the parking lot where I’d been waiting and approached her slowly to give her a chance to get her bearings and move on if she were not Loretta Roberts. But she stood where she was and when she saw me walking towards her, she smiled.

  “Mrs. Roberts?” I asked.

  “Mr. Herbert?” she replied.

  We shook hands, and her grip was strong. She had an accent that was a combination of Jamaican and English that transformed “Mr. Herbert” into “Meestah Erbert.” It sounded nice.