Bird's-Eye View

by J. F. Freedman

  My friends, those who knew of these breathtaking adventures, would shake their heads at my latest escapade, calling me a crazy bastard, while secretly wishing they had the guts to try what I was doing. Most people, I’m convinced, live that way—vicariously, through others. I didn’t want to be one of them, a member of the herd. I wanted to be the lead stallion, the first to see over the next horizon.

  My life, in almost every way, was rosy—if I wanted to do something, anything, I did it. I had no one to answer to, no one to be accountable to. And I was lucky enough—I take no credit for this, it must have been purely genetic—that I had some kind of inner governor, a little voice deep inside my brain, that told me when I was, finally, going too far, that I had pushed as hard as I could without being so out of my control that I could fail. So fail I never did. I always survived to tell the tale and to try yet another dangerous venture.

  This testing of my limits, which had a strong core of self-centeredness, extended to my relationships with women. If I was attracted to a woman and I could score, I did. I wasn’t an indiscriminate pussy-hound, I didn’t screw everything in sight. I didn’t have to, I could pick and choose.

  For the first few years in Austin, then, everything was peachy. The teaching went well from the start, and I was involved, for various periods of time, with some excellent women. I had set definite parameters for myself regarding who I’d allow myself to get involved with sexually. No undergraduates, no women on the faculty, and most important, married women were off-limits, regardless of whether or not they wanted to play.

  Unfortunately—and inevitably, given my disposition—I started sliding. My initial falling off the wagon was with an undergraduate who was twenty-six, several years older than the usual undergrad. Thelma had been in the Navy and had worked before starting college. I think what attracted me to her initially was her name. There can’t be any Thelmas in existence under fifty, except for this one. Thelma McGraw. She hailed from Lubbock, which is in West Texas and has nothing going for it according to her, except that Buddy Holly and the Crickets and some other famous singers of that bygone era came from there. And never went back, she added, nor would she. She was quite a Buddy Holly fan and knew the lyrics to all his recorded songs, which she would sing at various weird times, including while in the throes of hot sex. “That’ll Be the Day” is actually rather appropriate for a transitory love affair, which ours certainly was. The point is, since she was twenty-six and experienced—she’d also been married for a short, forgettable time—I didn’t feel I was violating my no-undergraduate oath, only technically, not in spirit, which is what really counts. She would have laughed at me if I’d told her of such an absurd credo, so I didn’t.

  That liaison lasted a few months and petered out naturally at the end of the semester with no hurt feelings on either side, which turned out to be a curse rather than a blessing, because pulling the affair off so comfortably and guilt-free emboldened me to expand my boundaries—not much, just a smidgen (I was conning myself, of course)—and once I did that, it was an easy downhill descent. It isn’t the miles that do you in but the inches, because you don’t notice them slipping away.

  To begin with, I widened my self-imposed parameters, so more applicants could apply. Instead of no undergraduate women, I set an age limit of no one younger than twenty-three, which I eventually loosened to twenty-two, drinking age plus one, more than enough time to become an adult and be accountable for adult choices, including fucking professors if you want to. That expanded the field tremendously, because in most universities, especially public ones, students don’t graduate in four years, it takes longer, generally five or six. So virtually every senior undergraduate woman was fair game.

  That worked incredibly well; it was like hitting three cherries at a Vegas slot machine. My appointment book was filled to overflowing.

  Those women had a lot going for them: beauty, wonderful tight bodies, uninhibited attitudes. But they were also lacking in life experience, and not being able to talk about things I found interesting—being more than a decade older (by now I was thirty-four), or being expected to enjoy and embrace college-age stuff, which was often immature and banal, even with the bright ones—became a turnoff. Also, there was the fear of exposure. None of them ever filed a complaint against me, which was a miracle, when I think back on it, considering how some of those relationships ended, but the nervous-making possibility was very present.

  So I expanded my boundaries yet again, to include female colleagues. Single or divorced only, of course. That was okay legally, because those relationships were between responsible adults. That they were frowned upon by the administration stopped me not in the least. From childhood on I’d been given to understand that rules were for other people and didn’t apply to me; or if they did, it was okay to flout them, because I was never punished, I never paid the price. And why obey stupid rules, wasn’t that the point of all those revolutions of the 1960s, civil rights, sexual, political?

  What was wrong, I knew, was hurting someone, or being hurt back. Inflicting pain on another person, women with whom I’d been intimate, not only sexually but emotionally, never felt good, even though it was never intentional. I’m not shallow. But there was pain in all these relationships, because unless you spend the rest of your life with someone, the relationship is going to end. None of my relationships lasted forever, or even remotely, so I had some bad endings. Terrible endings, crying and screaming and pleading. My pain wasn’t as strong or deep, because I was always the one to end them, but it still felt bad, seeing the hurt I had caused.

  Then the roof caved in.

  Two years ago this coming September I was driving west out of Austin into the Hill Country, Lyndon Johnson’s old stomping ground. It was a Sunday afternoon, the last weekend before the beginning of the fall term. I’d brought a camera with me, to shoot whatever pretty or interesting sight crossed my eye.

  This is the most beautiful area of Texas. It extends west about a hundred miles, from Austin in the north to San Antonio in the south. The air is incredibly clean, the plant life, particularly in the spring, is gorgeous, it’s the best of what this country used to be a hundred years ago. It’s touristy as hell now—all the old quaint German towns are jammed with visitors from all over the world from spring until fall, but it’s still a wonderful place to come to.

  A sudden rain shower came up, as happens at that time of year. They bluster crazy for about half an hour, then they’re gone. As I meandered along one of the backcounty roads I spied a car, a vintage Jaguar, that had lost traction on the wet pavement and skidded off the road and into a drainage ditch on the far side.

  I pulled over and jumped out to take a look. The car had blown a tire. The sole occupant, sitting dazed in the driver’s seat, was an attractive woman of means, judging by her clothes, makeup, general demeanor, and the car. She wasn’t hurt, but she was shaken by the accident.

  I helped her out of her car and into mine. As she settled into the passenger seat next to me, slipping her wet pumps off and shaking her neck-length hair dry, I couldn’t help but notice that she was married: she was sporting a diamond on her left hand that had to be two or three carats at least, along with a smaller, matching wedding band. I judged her to be older than me by five or six years.

  She introduced herself as Marnie Hamilton. She was on her way to Austin, where she lived. She’d been in San Angelo for a week, visiting with her sister. As had I, she’d detoured off the main road to savor the pleasures of the early fall countryside, only to almost flip her car in the rain when the tire blew. She was very happy to see me, she smiled gratefully—she’d forgotten to recharge the battery on her cell phone. And, she admitted with chagrin, she didn’t have a spare tire—her old spare had gone bad and she hadn’t gotten around to replacing it.

  I contemplated what to do. I didn’t want to turn around and head back to Austin; I’d planned on a few days off by myself, as the semester didn’t begin until Wednesday. But I couldn’t strand
her, of course.

  Before I could figure a way out of this dilemma she read my mind and told me I need merely take her to the nearest town that had a garage that could haul her car in and fix her tire or sell her a replacement. Worse came to worst, she could call Austin and have someone come out and pick her up.

  That sounded like a plan. We waited in my car until the rain slacked, then she grabbed her suitcase from the trunk of her car for safekeeping, threw it in my backseat, locked up the Jag, and we headed off.

  It became evident almost immediately that there was going to be a glitch in this scheme: there were no open garages in any of the little burgs we drove through. Sunday, day of rest. Finally, as evening was approaching, I came to my destination, a rustic bed-and-breakfast in the tiny town of Yamparika. I’d booked my room sight unseen—a friend had touted it to me as a cozy place that served a hell of a good dinner, with a not bad wine list. People drove a hundred miles to eat here, not a great distance in this part of Texas. I’d made a dinner reservation for myself when I reserved my room.

  “You can call Austin from here,” I said.

  She followed me inside to the reception area, which was tucked in a corner of the Southwestern country-style living room. Behind the desk stood a stout, elderly woman. Her name tag identified her as Mildred Hertzburg.

  “Mr. Tullis?” She smiled. As I looked at her in surprise, she continued, “you’re the last guest to check in tonight. Am I right? You are Mr. Tullis?”

  “Yes,” I smiled back.

  She rotated the registration book in my direction. Then she noticed Marnie, standing a few paces behind me.

  “Oh,” the woman said. “This is Mrs. Tullis?”

  I didn’t connect for a moment. “I’m not—”

  “We thought you were a single,” Mrs. Hertzburg said before I could finish. “No matter,” she said efficiently, “your room has a queen-sized bed. So that’ll be two for dinner rather than one,” she added.

  “Well, there’s a—” I was going to say “mistake here,” but she was too fast for me again.

  “It’s good you reserved in advance, because we’re full up tonight. I’ve already turned two parties away. You’d have to drive clear to San Angelo to find a place.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I signed her book, and she handed me two keys.

  “Upstairs, third door on the right. It’s one of our nicest rooms, a bed–sitting room combination. The tub has a Jacuzzi, in case you’re inclined.” She smiled past me to Marnie, who was staring at her damp shoes. “The dining room opens in twenty minutes, and we serve until nine-thirty. Do you have bags?”

  “In the car. I can . . . we can get them.”

  Marnie followed me out to the car. “This is very embarrassing,” she said as I opened the trunk and grabbed my small overnight bag. “I’ll call home right away.”

  We went back inside and up the stairs. I slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.

  The room was L-shaped, tastefully decorated in the same fashion as the common room upstairs. There was a large sitting area with a couch and two wing chairs flanking a fireplace, a small table off to the side where you could eat breakfast if you were so inclined, and a high, four-poster bed with a down cover. The large bathroom was dominated by the octagonal tub. French doors led to a balcony outside that overlooked the low, rolling, flower-covered hills.

  “How lovely,” Marnie murmured. She sat on the couch. “Can I ask you a favor? Before I make my call?”

  “Sure.”

  “Could I get my suitcase out of your car? My shoes and stockings are wet. I’d like to change into dry.”

  “No problem,” I told her. “I’ll get it for you.”

  I went back downstairs. As I was heading out the door I bumped into Mrs. Hertzburg. “Your wife is lovely,” she commended me.

  I didn’t tell her Marnie wasn’t my wife. She’d find out soon enough, when Marnie’s husband or whoever was picking her up arrived from Austin.

  Marnie was by the telephone when I came back into the room. She looked morose. “There’s no one home.”

  I stared at her.

  “I left San Angelo a day early. I wasn’t expected until tomorrow.”

  Now what? I thought. Then I made a decision that is going to haunt me for the rest of my life. “Not a problem,” I told her. “You can sleep here, on the couch.”

  “Are you . . . sure?” Her right hand went to her wedding band reflexively.

  “What’re your alternatives?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It doesn’t look like you have any.” I smiled reassuringly, trying to put her at ease. “We’re adults, we can handle this. I’ll be respectful of your space, don’t worry. We can get your car taken care of in the morning.”

  “Thank you.” She looked so grateful, both at my offer of sharing and the gallantry about her modesty, that for a moment I thought she was going to cry.

  She didn’t, though. She changed in the bathroom. She looked nice—she was a conventionally sweet-looking, married woman, some years older than me, and judging by her car, her large diamond ring, and the cut of her clothes, hair, the full package, conservative in her life. Not a Fritz Tullis woman, who runs to wild and crazy.

  Dinner was full-on gourmet, nothing Texas shit-kicker about it—there was not one fried fish on the menu. We lingered over the meal, enjoying a nice bottle of wine, sharing a piece of rich chocolate cake for dessert. When the bill came, she grabbed it before I could sign.

  “Please. It’s the least I can do to repay you for your generosity.”

  This was true; and since I knew she could afford it, I let her. It wasn’t the money—the gesture made her feel better, that she wasn’t completely freeloading.

  Back in the bedroom, we each had a cognac from the minibar and watched a Goldie Hawn comedy on HBO. It was a romantic setting, except we weren’t romantic, carefully so. We sat fully clothed on the couch, and kept a discreet distance between us.

  Then it was time for bed. She used the bathroom first, emerging wearing a pair of plain-jane cotton pajamas. Her face, redolent of lilac soap, was clean of makeup. Unadorned, she looked her age. Youthfully scrubbed, but there was no denying the age lines around her eyes and mouth. She was into her middle age, and she would never get any younger.

  I put together a sleeping outfit of running shorts and a T-shirt. When I emerged from the bathroom she’d already fixed up the sofa with an extra blanket from the closet and a spare pillow.

  “You’re all settled,” I observed.

  She nodded. “Good night, Fritz. And thank you again for being so kind.”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  She got into her makeshift bed. I waited a moment to make sure she was secure, then I crawled into mine and turned off the lights.

  The fragrance of lilac soap woke me up. I’d been dreaming; for a moment I was discombobulated. Then I wasn’t.

  Marnie was in bed with me. She wasn’t wearing her pajamas. She wasn’t wearing anything.

  “Please forgive me,” she whispered.

  What was to forgive?

  Who can explain it, who can tell you why? Corny, but in our case, true.

  Neither of us slept that night. Even given the emotional awkwardness of this being our first time together, it was glorious. Unlike some of the young goddesses I’d known, her body was ordinary, but we fit together flawlessly.

  After we made love the first time we rested, talked, had drinks from the minibar, then made love again. This was not two heat-seeking animalist forces, the way I was used to it. This was lovemaking, the real thing. I’d never been in this place before: it was exhilarating, overwhelming.

  It was also scary as hell: she was married.

  She filled in some of her blanks. Forty-three years old. Married for nine years, her only marriage. No children, her husband didn’t want them, he had adult children from his previous marriage. He was older, almost sixty, he didn’t want to start a family all over ag
ain. He had left his first wife for her. She had not wanted him to, but once he did, she felt obligated to marry him. Which did not mean she hadn’t loved him. But breaking up his family, even if that was the perception in the community rather than the reality (he was going to leave his wife no matter what, he just needed a reason to do it sooner than later), had weighed heavily on her. He had become estranged from his children, a man and a woman in their early thirties (my age, I thought, as she recited this litany), after the divorce and remarriage. It bothered her, Marnie, more than it bothered him.

  Her husband, Mark Hamilton, was a doctor. Rich, successful, narcissistic. They lived, palatially, in Austin. His circle was their circle, his interests their interests. She’d been a social worker before they got married—they’d met while serving on a United Way committee, of which he was the chairman, she a lowly volunteer. She had tried to resist him, but he was irresistible. In everything, not only the pursuit of his own, self-centered happiness.

  She had a wonderful material life, but it was bereft of love, of passion. Until yesterday, when her car blew a tire in a rainstorm and I, by pure random (or divine, so she felt) chance, came along to help her out.

  Is there such a thing as love at first encounter? I’d never believed so. I don’t know if I did then, or do now. Marnie did, unquestionably; she wasn’t being disingenuous, she was honestly smitten. She had fallen in love with me.

  As had I with her, to be brutally honest with myself, looking back on it. On some level. I don’t know if it was on a par with the love that she said she felt; to me, that kind of intensity, involving depth and complexity and extensive knowledge of the other person, takes time, it’s not to be entered into quickly or lightly or frivolously, because you’re talking, ultimately, about a lifetime commitment; but I fell for her like the proverbial ton of bricks.

  I didn’t realize the extent of my emotional involvement until we checked out late that morning. Earlier, she had arranged for a tow service to pick up her car and take it to a garage about fifteen miles away. The tire would be fixed by the time she came to fetch it.