by Scott Martin
I had expected firecrackers – or at least butterflies – in the pit of my stomach at our first personal encounter, but standing across from her I felt only peaceful serenity. Where were the nerves? I knew why my palms weren’t clammy, but what about my underarms and forehead? Shouldn’t my heart have started pounding the second I drove into downtown? This felt more like reuniting with an old friend than embarking on a first date.
‘Scott,’ she said as I approached, my name rolling from her lips in that same alluring way I couldn’t get enough of. ‘Before we go any further, I need to tell you something. You should know that I’m in the middle of a divorce. We’re in the last stage; it’s just hinging on the financial aspect, and I don’t –’
The words had been tumbling out of her mouth like marbles falling down stairs, rolling on top of each other in their haste to be free. Then she stopped. Her lower lip crept between her teeth and she looked at me with such hopefully mournful eyes I had to suppress a smile.
‘Come on,’ I said after could trust my voice not to hitch on a chuckle. ‘Show me downtown Olympia.’
~~~
We walked aimlessly up and down and down and up the streets of downtown Olympia, traveling wherever our feet would carry us in our quest to keep the inevitable end of our first date at bay. After two hours spent strolling along the damp concrete, dodging water droplets as they wept from rain gutters and leafless trees, and wistfully admiring the Christmas lights strung on the eaves of buildings, I offered to make pizza for us both as an excuse to head indoors together.
It was an easy detour to the nearest Albertson’s and Ellen told me about her Italian upbringing as I gathered ingredients for a very American pizza. I considered fretting over whether my cooking would impress her or not, but dismissed the notion as a waste of energy. Like the butterflies, a poignant need to impress Ellen with my prowess was peacefully MIA.
As we were heading to the check-out lane, Ellen guilelessly inquired, ‘So you don’t drink coffee, but do you drink beer?’
Guided by the propensity we had developed for open conversation, my mouth responded before my mind could catch up: ‘That I drink.’
As soon as the words had fallen from my lips, I snapped my jaw shut and felt, for the first time in Ellen’s presence, the antecedent throes of anxiety. Already forced to pay with food stamps, I was now caught in an awkward position because stamps couldn’t be used to purchase alcoholic beverages.
Ellen looked at me with those insightful, brown eyes and averred, ‘I’m buying. Don’t argue.’
Like a light shone into a dark, suspicious corner, all my apprehensions were instantly allayed. Oddly enough, no blush colored my cheeks, nor did a clammy sweat break out across my body. Instead, I simply thanked her and said, ‘Corona with lime.’
~~~
Her hair tickled my neck. I wanted to brush the itch away, but nothing in the world could make me move from that exact spot. She was stretched out next to me on her brown print sofa, our legs intertwined like the beginnings of a braid as we lay on our right sides facing the television. An open window sent a temperate breeze grazing across our bodies, toying with her curls. I longed to run my fingers through the lustrous locks as the breeze did; to feel their sensuous waves slide across my palm. In some ways, it was like courting a lady when courtship entailed chaperoned walks and never seeing her ankles. Only, in my case, no amount of time or level of commitment could change the situation. But at least I know the feel of her warmth in my arms, I mused as the enviable breeze stroked her hair once more.
The afternoon light floating through the four full-length windows was hazy, softening the appearance of our surroundings as if everything were cloaked in transparent silk. The Seattle Mariners were playing baseball on the television and, as always, Ellen was emotionally vested in every play and held none of her criticisms – ‘encouragements’, as she called them – back. Her enthusiasm reminded me of the nights that, as kids, Jeff and I tuned our radio to KMOX out of St. Louis to listen to our favorite team, the Cardinals.
I grinned as she coached the team from afar, instructing Glenallen Hill to ‘lay down a good bunt,’ then barking at him about his incompetence when he lined out to the Minnesota Twins left fielder instead. Baseball season had only been underway for a month, but I’d already lost count of the number of times I’d found myself nestled beside Ellen on her sofa doing this very thing.
If I had to, I could probably pinpoint when each successive date ended and the next began. But truth be told, the days I spent with Ellen seemed to meld into each other like the overlapping glow of two adjacent streetlamps. Ellen and I flowed – glided through the progression of our relationship like two carefree leaves leisurely floating side-by-side down the same stream. No rush; no thoughts of where the stream may lead or need to pinpoint where we were sailing in that particular moment. We always seemed to intuitively be on the same line of the same page, reading at the same speed. ‘Kindred spirits,’ some might call us. If ever there was an argument for fate, others would say, it would be our first meeting at her clinic.
The tricky part of fate, though, is determining how far back it goes. If it was fate that led me to meet Ellen that December morning in 1997, was it also fate that brought me to rock bottom and forced me to seek psychological help? Was it fate that caused me to lose the trial and leave so much behind in Wisconsin? Was it fate which inflicted me with the flesh-eating disease and robbed me of my hands and feet?
And if it was fate that brought me here, should I feel gratitude towards it or condemnation?
Another tickle along my neck brought me back to the present. Ellen had shifted, twisting slightly in my arms so her left shoulder pressed against my chest and she could incline her head to gaze up at me. The game had cut to a commercial and with it went the tension and frustration that had kept her body taught.
In a casual voice, as if discussing the weather or proposing pizza for dinner, she stated matter-of-factly, ‘We should get married.’
I looked down at her, stared into those deep, brown eyes so stern like a child determined that you should take her seriously, and felt my eyebrows rise in surprised amusement.
‘Stop yelling at the Mariner players and it’s a deal.’
Oh, brother, I brooded in shamefaced dismay when she nodded perfunctorily and turned back to the TV, was I actually playing hard-to-get?
Who was I to say such a brazen thing on the heels of a marriage proposal? By all rights I should have been groveling for her acceptance of my hand – I was the one with the robotic ones, after all. I looked at the left myo where it rested innocently on the gentle, moon-like curve of Ellen’s hip. Why would this amazing woman – a doctor, no less – want to marry me? Handicapped with missing limbs and no direct career path, I was hardly a catch. Hell, I was still living on food stamps.
I opened my mouth to apologize and beg for her forgiveness. Then paused before the words could come tumbling out. The game had resumed with Bill Swift now pitching for the Mariners, but from the sofa there was only silence. I peered down at Ellen, the biggest fan-meets-critic of the Seattle Mariner Baseball Club. She was watching with her head pillowed on her arm and eyes fixed on the screen. I saw the ripples of a furrow in her brow. But her mouth was clamped firmly shut.
She stayed quiet for the remainder of the game.
~~~
The Thurston County Courthouse Complex was a cluster of stocky, red-brick buildings with even redder, sloped metal roofs that hung low over their walls. The windows of the top floors were partially obscured by the overhanging roofs, peeking out from behind the protrusions like eyes peering out from behind bangs in need of a trim. It was the first of May and green had claimed the landscape, brandishing its various hews in happy abundance among the buildings and parking lots. I reclined in the passenger seat of Ellen’s teal green Nissan Quest and gazed contentedly out the open window at the white speckles of daisies dotting the grass.
The courthouse doors were flung wide, jolting me
from my daydreams, as a brunette with thick, curly hair in a navy and white print dress came bursting through the doorway. It was Ellen, in her blue and white dress, charging down the walk at a clip fast enough to make any power-walker envious.
As she veered towards where I waited in the van a smile bloomed on her face and I caught my breath at the unornamented beauty of it. In a moment of sheer exuberant spontaneity she leapt into the air, throwing her arms wide and whooping with excitement.
She came around to the passenger’s side of the van still beaming like an elf on Christmas, her work finally done, and leaned into the window to give me a fervent, celebratory kiss. When she pulled away with a gleeful sigh, I carefully adopted an incurious tone in asking, ‘So it’s finalized, then?’
‘Yup! Good riddance, too!’ she jeered in good humor.
I nodded, glanced out the windshield at the daisies, then back at the ebullient, Italian-featured woman beside my window. She was gazing at the building with her chin inclined and a self-satisfied, upward curve to her lips. The vernal air had yet to be infused with summer’s warmth and still held a slight chill that brought rosy spots to her cheeks and nose.
Stunning.
‘Now you’re officially divorced, would you like to go back in and get a marriage license?’ I inquired in the same impassive voice she had used that Saturday afternoon during the Mariners game. Her eyes turned first, sliding from the building down and left in the direction of the car. Then came her chin, arcing around towards me like the curve of a ball in decent as her chest fell on the exhalation of a deep breath. Her eyes were squinting against the sunlight when they met my own and her lips still held the same crescent of a blossoming smile.
‘Close the window, grab your wallet, lock the car, and let’s go.’
~~~
We were married four weeks later in the same building by the judge on wedding duty that day. It was beyond simple – bleak and austere as far as ceremonies go. In other words: ideal.
I wore a blue suit jacket and tan slacks with a yellow boutonniere in my lapel to match the flowers pinned in Ellen’s unfettered hair. She had a yellow, flower-print dress that hung to just below her knees and sang of summer and spring. We were simply adorned for our simple ceremony and as merry as ants at a picnic.
It was the first time I had been in a courthouse since the trial, but nothing here reminded me of then. It was as if I was reading from a different book now and those scenes no longer connected to these. Life had moved on. And for once, I had moved with it.
~~~
‘Throw home on that play! Come on! What are you doing?!’ She fell back against the pillows with a chagrined sigh loud enough to drown out Dave Niehaus’ play-by-play on the radio. In their seventh inning, the Mariners were only leading by two. And by the way Ellen was verbally attacking the players on the screen, it seemed they’d be lucky to end behind by two.
‘Ah, what’s the use? They never listen to me, anyway,’ she lamented and glanced out the window at the silent, flat waters of the tree-framed lake. It was strange to think that it had been two weeks since our honeymoon. No, what was strange was to think that only seven months ago I’d never heard of Ellen Parker.
She began to turn her head, her eyes seeking my visual summons as I gazed at her profile, and our sights locked. She smiled at me, long and slow. One hand reaching towards me like a blind man groping for his cane. The phone pealed and her hand went still, falling to the mattress between us as she turned to retrieve the handset from her nightstand.
How did you find me? I wondered as she turned the volume on the radio to low, the crowd becoming a droning hum behind Niehaus’ softly scratching voice. I had been so lost before Ellen, my life in the midst of swinging wildly off course, and then there she was: physician, friend, wife. And the tracks switched, curving gently in the opposite direction – the pendulum picking up its swing as it righted itself. I was finally heading somewhere I wanted to be.
‘Hello?’ Ellen chirped cheerily into the phone, eyes drifting back to the television screen with almost subconscious listlessness. A pause, followed by an ingratiating smile. I couldn’t make out the voice on the other end of the line, but judging by the amiable squint to her eyes he or she was friend not foe.
‘Oh, it was wonderful!’ Ellen chimed. ‘We were at the World Cup opening match when Brazil beat Scotland. The Brazilian fans were so much fun! Here, I’ll pass you to Scott.’ She leaned towards me, passing the phone from right hand to left then out to me. ‘John Wedge is on the phone.’
‘John,’ I said as I brought the handset to my ear. His name was almost a question; our 1998 roster was already set and there was still a month to go before pre-season training would begin. What news could he have that needed to be shared on a Saturday afternoon?
‘Sounds like you guys had fun at the World Cup,’ came John’s British-accented voice.
I slanted a smile at Ellen. ‘Sure was. Best honeymoon I’ve ever been on.’ Ellen just rolled her eyes at me, knowing full well it was the only honeymoon I’d ever been on.
‘And the only one you ever will be on,’ she chided.
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ John replied. I murmured a thank-you sound in the back of my throat and waited while John drifted to silence. Something was up – I could feel it just as I had felt it when Ellen called to ask me on a date. This wasn’t just a courtesy call or a “welcome home” call. Ellen must have had the same sense because she turned the TV off and twisted on the bed to watch my face. I leaned towards her, tipping the phone away from my ear slightly so John’s voice would carry, and waited.
‘I haven’t forgotten our agreement,’ John said at last. ‘Do you know much about Gonzaga?’ My mind flashed to the private Roman Catholic university nestled along the Spokane River and I felt my body go still.
‘More about their basketball than their soccer. What’s up?’ I didn’t want to hope – didn’t know if I was hoping. Mentioning our agreement that I work for free in exchange for his helping me move up the ladder and then following that with the name of a Division I university; I was scared to hope.
‘The head women’s coach is going to resign,’ John said, his accent nullifying the R’s and clipping the consonants. I held my breath, heard my heartbeat echoing in my ears. This was it; what I had been waiting for. So why was there foreboding in my chest where excitement should have been?
‘He wants to name you as his assistant so you can slide into the head coach position on his heels. His departure needs to stay quiet until he leaves, though. Are you interested?’
I paused, pictured myself standing on the edge of the field as the head coach of a Division I soccer team, felt the satisfaction and glory of having finally achieved my professional goal, and said, ‘Can I have a day to think about it?’
‘Get back to me in the morning. This needs to happen quickly.’
‘Sure, John. Thanks.’ I lowered the phone from my ear and pressed the End Call button with my eyes downcast. When I managed to lift my gaze to my wife, she was staring fixedly at me, patient expectation sharp in her eyes.
‘You’re taking the job.’
I felt a smile twitch across my lips. God, I love you.
As I passed the phone back to Ellen, I straightened my expression and took a breath.
‘Hang on, let’s think about this first,’ I said. I could sense Ellen stifling the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation, which only made me more enamored with her. No one rooted for me harder than Ellen, even if my achieving my dreams could cause her to lose a part of hers.
Suddenly wanting to think of anything but that single, defining facet of the offer, I sighed and went into logistics. ‘Gonzaga is strong academically, which is important for recruiting because these players are first and foremost students. It’s also good for me because I could work on earning my master’s degree while I’m there. But I know the program itself is pretty weak, especially faced with the West Coast Conference which is really strong.’
I didn
’t want to say it; didn’t want it to be an issue; didn’t want it to come down to this, but what else was there for it to come down to? So what if it wasn’t the top soccer school on the West Coast? That only meant we had farther to climb. I had no qualms with coming in an underdog – heck, I preferred it that way; more to gain and less to lose. But it wasn’t the caliber of the school or the program itself that was twisting in my gut, dividing my conscious into two warring parties, the ‘hell yes’-ers and the ‘we can’t’s.
‘If I take it,’ I murmured, the words drifting on a single breath, hovering between us like the magician’s final act right before he pulls back the curtain, ‘it will mean my moving to Spokane.’
Spokane was over five hours away. I looked at her and felt my gaze turn imploring – but imploring for what? Did I want her to tell me to do it, or to be the crux upon which I could hang my dismissal, my rejection? I wanted both: her, and the opportunity to be at the top, to coach Division I soccer, to do what no one thought a man with no hands was capable of. I wanted it all.
But that wasn’t what was on the table right now. Ellen had built her medical practice from scratch in this city. If it came down to it, could I ask her to move to Spokane with me?
She reached for my hands, cupped them in her own as if I could feel the confident strength of her fingers and, holding my gaze with ardent, chocolate-brown eyes, said, ‘You need to take it. We’ll deal with what happens after once you’re in Spokane.’
24
On to Gonzaga
I was standing on flat ground in front of a building made mostly of concrete. There was a sign out front. Grey speckled stone and concrete to compliment the building, it declared in cold, metal letters:
The
Charlotte Y. Martin
Athletics Centre
