On occasion, we hosted joint “discussion days” with our classrooms—mine filled with young girls in the secretarial program and his filled with boys from the Greenhouse and Landscape program. We brought in guest speakers and invited them to have dialogues about the issues on their mind—marriage, politics, careers. We instigated games of red rover and tag on our lunch hours with the kids, who, resisting their desire to be cool, joined in the fun. Our creative spirits were enhanced by each other, and we grew close through our conscious rebellion against the stuffy standards held by most teachers—wanting to touch the kids in ways that would kindle their heartfelt passions, whatever they may be. I was becoming more aware of the feminist movement and took the bold step of cutting up the “Miss Anderson” sign outside my door and posted one reading “Ms. Anderson”—wanting young girls to have an alternative role model, in addition to the plethora of traditional ones that surrounded them. Inside my classroom office, I had another sign that read, “Cinderella is Dead.”
Mike seemed to be more enlightened about women’s rights than most males in his cohort, and he appreciated my radical nature. He was also more emotionally available than other men, and, before long, we were taking leisurely rides in his blue Chevy truck at the end of the school day. I usually sat by the window, but after a while he pulled me toward the middle of the bench seat and put his arm around me. Afternoons often drifted into evenings, and we’d have dinner together in some town away from the school, followed by a dessert of making out like teenagers in random parking lots until he had to go home.
Though I knew these escapades weren’t aligned with my values, I rationalized my behavior with the fact that we weren’t sleeping together. But we were definitely having an emotional affair. And since he was a man, surely this meant I was normal, relegating those fleeting experiences in college back to their place as mere explorations—experiments in finding myself. Even though we could not be together in public, our secret relationship allayed my internal anxieties about being gay. His creative mind and ease in conversation increased his physical attraction, and the person I once saw as average became beautiful in my eyes.
Summer was coming and I had planned a two-month trip to Europe with friends. Our relationship had deepened significantly in the past few months and we spent much of our free time together whenever he could get away. Though I had misgivings about traveling all summer, I hoped the time away would bring some clarity about where this relationship was going. It was getting harder to spend time with him knowing that it was always limited by circumstance rather than desire.
To lessen the agony of separation while I was gone, we devised a plan to stay in communication on my trip. Without the aid of technology, the only way to connect was through snail mail and the occasional pre-arranged phone call from a telegraph station in a town on our itinerary. I would send him postcards in code and he would send letters to the post offices on our route. Through mail we would determine times we could talk by phone. The clandestine nature of our proposed plan heightened the excitement of the trip and the anticipation of mail from him was as titillating as the prospect of seeing the opera Aida in Rome.
Early on, Mike had shared the difficulties in his marriage, and I was a sympathetic listener, never imagining that we would fall in love as we learned more about each other’s defiant streaks and progressive views on education. While I don’t think I was the initial cause of their marital problems, our growing fascination with each other definitely played a role in his marriage’s demise. Eventually, Mike separated from his wife, and we were free to explore our relationship more fully. Once his divorce was final, he was the first man I ever slept with, and I was sure that he was the one I would one day marry.
To mark the significance of our relationship, I bought him a beautiful tiger eye ring. The stone shimmered in the light, anchored by a wide silver band that encircled his finger. He had always wanted a ring like that, and I was proud to give it to him.
As the following summer approached, we planned a six-week vacation out West together driving through Colorado to California, up the coast to Oregon and Seattle, then on to Vancouver and across Canada to Banff. He bought a new truck for the trip, and I stayed home to get everything ready while he went to his brother’s wedding in Ohio. Since he was recently divorced, we didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves. He didn’t call me while he was on the road. Not expecting this silence, it made me uneasy, and I began making up reasons I hadn’t heard from him—he couldn’t remember my parents’ phone number (where I was staying for the weekend), he was busy with the wedding party, there were no phone booths near the hotel.
He seemed distant upon his return but suggested we start our trip the next day, two days earlier than planned. I agreed, and we loaded up the truck, attached our bicycles to the bike rack, and took off west down I-94. It was a quiet ride to Chicago, where we found a small hotel outside the city to spend the night. The next day we rose early and drove straight through to Boulder. The conversation was strained, and Mike was unusually withdrawn. When I asked him what was wrong, he replied, “Nothing.” His sister had recently died of a brain tumor, so I attributed his behavior to the grief he felt at her loss. We spent the night at my friend Sue’s, and the next day he asked for a few days alone to hike in the mountains. Though the request made me feel even more unsettled, I agreed, and he left while I stayed in Boulder. Each day, I did something new to relieve my anxiety—bought paints, wrote poetry, and shopped for small gifts to give him when we reunited.
It was a long week before he called. Asking me to fly to meet him in El Paso, Texas, he reassured me that he was fine and that we would continue our trip west. I was so elated to hear from him, I didn’t bother to ask how he had drifted over six hundred miles to the south when he had only wanted to spend time hiking in the Rockies. So, eager to be reunited, I bought the last plane ticket available—one-way, first class.
Exiting the jet way, I was greeted by smells of popcorn and barbecue. Neon signs for Bud Light, cowboy boots, and Stetsons competed for my attention. My eyes scanned the scene until I saw him walking around the corner. His stubbly beard, bloodshot eyes, and wrinkled denim shirt made him look like he had walked all the way to the airport. Instead of greeting me with open arms, he motioned for me to follow him to an empty sitting area. “Let’s talk here,” he said, when we were sufficiently removed from the crowd. “I have to tell you something.” He averted his gaze as he spoke. That phrase never has a happy ending. My heart rate started to climb as I braced myself for what was next. “Some things have changed.”
Well that seems evident, I thought. We had started a cross-country trip to California, up the coast to Banff and back down through Montana. Six fun weeks on the road camping out, hiking, and riding bikes. So far, we had made it to Boulder, Colorado, where I stayed while he went off to think in the mountains.
“I met someone at my brother’s wedding right before we left,” he continued. Now my heart was smashing into the walls of my chest. I reflected on our time apart. No wonder he hadn’t called me. “I drove from Colorado to Alabama to see her. That is where I have been this past week. She is flying to L.A. to meet me.”
I strained to grasp what he was saying as the airport spun in orbit behind him. He kept his head lowered, still avoiding eye contact. Finally, he looked up at me and said in a whisper, “I’m really sorry, Carol. I thought it best that I tell you in person.” It was then I noticed that the tigereye was no longer on his finger.
You’re sorry? I thought to myself. You have to be kidding. You asked me to pay for a one-way, first-class ticket from Boulder, Colorado, to El Paso, Texas, under the pretense of continuing our trip, where the only visible means of transportation I have now is a bicycle that is strapped to the bumper of your truck, and you are sorry? How stupid could I be? You’re sorry, all right—a sorry son of a bitch. I’m sorry, too. Sorry I ever met you. Sorry I dated you when you were still married. Sorry I loaned you nine hundred dollars that I will probably
never see again. And most of all, sorry I didn’t listen to my mother.
My fingernails pressed into my palms as my fists tightened. The loudspeaker blared the final boarding call for a flight to Seattle. A little girl in a pink-and-white-checked dress twirled across the floor. I was spinning across the arc of my life.
“Do you want to fly home to Michigan?”
Actually, I wanted to fly to Mars or Jupiter, another planet, another universe, but home? Not really. Finally, I blurted out, “No, I don’t want to fly home. I said I was going to California this summer, so drive me to California.”
I forged ahead of him out of the airport, up the escalator two steps at a time, and down the wide hallway, hurled forward by an unseen force into the dusk of an El Paso sunset. There, he pointed toward his vehicle in the parking lot. I climbed into the back bed of the truck, and he got in behind the wheel. I lay down on the sticky plastic mattress, felt my cheek adhere to the blue synthetic surface as I rolled on my side, and curled up in the fetal position. I listened to the hum of the engine start as I stared out the side window. Feeling the shred of a breeze cross my face, I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my lip.
It was 1974, and a lot had changed since the perfect families of the fifties and sixties, when couples stayed together for decades. This was the year married persons in the United States experienced the highest divorce rate since the end of World War II. It hadn’t occurred to me until this moment that if Mike would leave his wife for me, there was an equally good possibility that he might leave me for someone else.
We arrived at the airport in L.A. around 10:00 a.m., and Mike dropped me at the ticket counter, where I bought a oneway ticket to San Francisco. I left him standing there as I strode through the doors that led to my gate, past Dalton’s Bookstore and the shoeshine stand, digging my heels into the tattered carpet splattered with ketchup stains. On my way to the gate, I found a phone booth, took a seat, and stared at the pattern of small holes on the metal partition. I reached out and touched the cool surface, pressed my forehead against the cubicle. Finally, I dialed my parents.
My mother answered. The silence on my end signaled something was wrong, and I could hear the panic in her voice as she kept asking, “Are you there?”
Without a simple place to start, I just blurted it out. “He left me, Mom.”
She asked for details, and my story came out through intermittent sobs, along with my intense embarrassment at the stupidity of getting involved with a married man. I was hurt and angry—betrayed by a person I had deeply loved—tossed aside for someone he had known less than seventy-two hours. I had no one to blame but myself. I wished I had never met him, that I hadn’t let myself fall in love, that I had listened to the warnings of my mother. My mom was kind and reassuring though clearly worried about my job, my future, and, most of all, my fractured heart. She urged me to come home, but I knew I couldn’t. I promised to keep in touch every few days; then I hung up the phone.
I rented a car in San Francisco and found a small hotel on the coast, fifteen miles from the city. I spent my first week alone, wandering down by the wharf, eating cups full of bay shrimp, and visiting the tourist haunts, hiding my tear-streaked face with oversize sunglasses, trying to sort out what had happened. I wished for a shot of emotional novocaine to ease the wounding as I continued on my trip, bumming a ride up the coast to Portland, then Seattle, and then Vancouver.
I hit my lowest point after checking in at the YWCA in Seattle. I can still recall the faint smell of lavender as I walked the long corridor to my room, heels smacking on the tile floor. Opening the door to my room, I glimpsed a metal bunk bed with a plain white sheet and no spread; a large King James version of the Bible sat on a small end table marred by scratches and stains. A white basin with a rusted metal faucet and a tiny bar of soap in a fresh wrapper was on the sidewall. Hanging from the ceiling was a single light bulb without a shade. It looked like a fixture you might find over a pool table in a bar, only not as nice.
I sat on the bed and wondered if I would ever find love with anyone. I longed for home, for the comfort of my mother’s arms around me, the reassuring words my father would say—that I was beautiful, smart, capable in every way. I longed for my own double bed, the soft light of my bedroom, the familiar objects that made me feel like I belonged somewhere. I curled up on the bed and fell asleep in my clothes with my boots still on. I awoke around 6:00 a.m., the overhead light shining in my eyes.
It was on that morning, after twenty-five days of being alone or in the periodic company of strangers of all stripes, that I hit a turning point. I realized that in addition to all the pain that had swallowed me on up this trip, I had also voyaged through to an unexpected yet dazzling clarity about my future. Those strangers, without knowing it, had helped me claim my dream of going to graduate school. Whenever I was asked what I did for a living, my standard response was, “I’m a teacher, but I always wanted to be a psychologist.” I had repeated that response so automatically that I hadn’t listened thoughtfully to my own words. Walking around Seattle my first morning, it was clear to me that I could do that now. I knew I didn’t want to teach forever, and though I had been at this job only two years, I had saved nine thousand dollars—enough to pay for my tuition and an apartment my first year. The timeline was short from a practical point of view, but it was right on time for my heart, and I was aching for a change. I was making more money than either of my parents ever had, which was a great comfort to my mother. And though the thought of giving up that security for some unknown future employment was scary, it wasn’t as frightening as staying in place.
Damn it. I would do it. I would leave my job, start over. The thought of telling my mother now seemed nearly as daunting as getting dumped in El Paso, so I quietly set about crafting a plan. First, I would find out options for psychology programs at Eastern Michigan University, where I had taken a few classes. Then I would talk to David Stokehouse about teaching part-time at the business school where I had been employed before. If things looked good, I would call John, the principal of my school, and resign. Then—and only then—I would call my mother.
I returned to San Francisco to spend a few days with a friend of my mother’s and began to lay the groundwork. By mid-August I was ready to execute my plan and found a pay phone outside a convenience store across from my hotel. First, I called the admissions office at Eastern Michigan University and inquired about enrollment. Though I had taken a few classes there, I had never been formally admitted to a graduate program. I learned that they would not take me without a couple of undergraduate prerequisites I could complete there in the fall; then, I could apply in January for my specialist of arts degree in school psychology. But the admissions officer was clear: There was no guarantee I would get in. Scary news. What if I didn’t pass statistics? I would be out of a great job and have no prospects for a new career. That stopped me for a moment as I weighed my choices, but I kept going.
My next call was to my old boss at the business school to see if he could hire me to teach part-time. He thought something might be available for the evening, come September, and he would keep me in mind. Then I called John Pollack, principal of the vocational center. My heart hammered a simultaneous tune of freedom and disaster as I waited for him to answer. Embarrassed by Mike’s desertion, I felt awkward making the call, but John was kind and empathetic when I offered my resignation. He reminded me how much I loved the kids, what a great teacher I was, and how I had inspired him through many of our dialogues about education.
I had done it. There was no turning back now. I felt lighter, lifted by invisible wings and the prospect of fulfilling a dream. My final call was to my mother. I walked back and forth in front of the phone booth rehearsing what I would say, and then I went across the street to the drugstore and got a Coke. I scanned the shelves for some chocolate to bolster my resolve, then walked outside, picked up the phone, and dialed the number.
“Hi, honey,” my mother said.
I reassure
d her that I was doing well and knew that I would be all right; we made small talk for about ten minutes. My throat tightened the closer it came to sharing the purpose of the call. When I couldn’t delay any longer, I just spit it out. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, Mom, and I’ve decided that I want to go back to school.” Not wanting to lose my nerve, I continued on before she could offer a challenge. “So—I quit my job and will start at Eastern in the fall.” I told her of my conversation with David to return to work and assurances from the school that I could enroll in the two classes I needed as prerequisites. I stopped there and held my breath.
There was a long pause before she said, “Are you sure you want to do that?”
I responded with an emphatic “Yes!” and hoped my enthusiastic assertion would signal that the decision was made and not open for debate. I had called her last, fearing she would try to talk me out of it, but aside from modest objections, she didn’t persist in protest. In spite of being brokenhearted and the fear I felt in taking this risk, I also felt confident that I would succeed. I did my best to reassure her that I knew what I was doing. The worry in her voice was not assuaged by my assertions. I knew the only thing that would convince her was the new job I hoped to have three years from now as a school psychologist.
While I still carried the wounds from Mike’s abandonment, new waves of exhilaration seeped through the old pain at the prospect of returning to school. Now I had something to look forward to—a new goal for my professional life. If only I could gain the same clarity about relationships. My closest experience in creating anything akin to what my mother described between her and my dad had been with women. If I were ever to find real happiness, it seemed I needed to let go of all the old paradigms and expectations about who to love and how to love and find my own way.
You Can't Buy Love Like That Page 12
