Under the Birch Tree

by Nancy Chadwick

  “This has been a great evening. I enjoyed being with you. You’re very attractive and funny,” he said.

  “Thanks for the ride in your car. I loved it.”

  “Was that the best part for you this evening?” He chuckled.

  “Sure was. No, no, just kidding. I hope not, I hope there’s still more evening left.”

  “You know, I … I don’t know if I can handle another commitment,” he said.

  Here we go again. This is it. I won’t see him again.

  “I don’t mean to pressure you … or … I just like being with you.”

  Pat and I continued to walk with arms entwined, stopping for kisses and hugs. Our hugs were more like desperate clingings, lasting long enough to dismiss his fears and my anxiety about the possibility this would be our last date. I thought it was over with my rock star before it even got started. The drive home was more serious than the drive that started the evening, but our exchanged glances and smiles reassured me that maybe it wasn’t as bad I thought; or maybe I chose denial.

  I was curious about exactly what Pat did for a living, as I associated his shaggy dark hair, diamond earring, and rolled-up sleeves with being an artist or other creative type.

  One summer night, I stood in his kitchen—a kitchen by name, not by design.

  “So, you work in the family’s photo lab full-time?” I asked.

  “I’m also in theater with a group. We perform at the Roxy on Fullerton. Now go on over to the fridge,” he said.

  “Okay, so what am I supposed to do now?”

  “Open the freezer.”

  I opened the freezer and saw an arm that appeared to be cut off at the elbow sitting on top of a bag of frozen vegetables and a packaged T-bone. “Okay, so, there’s an arm in your freezer … and you’re keeping this on ice, frozen, for … what? To attach to the upper arm that is being worked on in the basement?”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing,” he chuckled. “I create special effects for movies and videos, you know … blood, gore, body parts, whatever they need.” Showing me what he did for a living rather than telling me created its own special effect. My rock star won me over by showing me his fake body parts.

  Pat walked down the kitchen stairs to the backyard to corral his two plump bulldogs into the house for the night. I remained at the door, holding it open to watch him standing at the bottom of the cement stairs. I looked down at him and caught a dim doorway light casting a glow on his upper body. Pat joined me on the top step. I put my arm through his, looked at him, and closed my eyes to hold the moment. When I opened them he was staring at me. He put his arms around me, and we hugged.

  “Charlotte Rampling. Do you know who she is? She’s an actress. You look like her,” he whispered.

  “Yes, I do, in fact I just saw her in The Verdict. Mmm.”

  He pulled me to my feet and held me close. We stared long and kissed softly. His six-foot-two-inch frame towered over my five-foot-three-inch self. I followed him to a dark bedroom with only the lamplight from the living room casting a dim yellow glow on the bed. We lay down, embraced, kissing while entwined. He rolled on to his side gazing at me, close. My heart raced, and my cheeks flushed with excitement and anticipation.

  “I want a picture of you,” he said.

  “A picture? Well, okay, sure. I’m not sure I’ve got a good one, but I’ll see.” I’d never been asked for a picture before. I giggled in the innocence of the question and delighted in giving him my response. “This would be my first time,” I whispered. I was comfortable enough in the intimacy of the moment to admit my inexperience. And then I second-guessed my confession to presume this make-out session would lead somewhere.

  And then all motion stopped, still, quiet. A pause.

  “I can’t do this, Nancy … no, just can’t. I don’t want to be the one, nope, no.”

  “Well, okay, then … well, I’ll just go then? I guess I’ll just go.”

  God, I didn’t want him to answer that. I wanted him to say that everything was okay and to stay for a little while longer. My confession had stopped everything. I stood, straightened myself, and stared at him, flushed with embarrassment, hoping he’d say he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to push me away and to come close, back to him. I hurriedly said goodbye and walked out the front door. I couldn’t remember where I’d parked, so I continued walking around the block with nothing but the previous conversation guiding my nomadic search. I was too young, naive, and embarrassed; I was that college student again. I was fun to be with and attractive, but I still couldn’t get the boyfriend.

  We didn’t date or speak with each other often after that, but just when I reached a low point in professional and personal happiness, the Applebash, an employee-bonding event at the ad agency, rescued me. Employees enjoyed a day of barbecues and softball games in a carnival setting.

  I had dressed in pink leggings and purple leotard, a fashion statement for the early eighties, for an aerobics dance session during the event.

  “Hello there,” Len said.

  Len was older than I, maybe twenty years.

  “Hi. Were you standing there the whole time? Were you watching us when you should have been working out with us?” I asked.

  “Yes and no. I was standing there most of the time, and hell no, I wasn’t going to do that stuff.”

  “Not a joiner, huh?”

  “No way.”

  “So, what is it that you do, anyway?” I asked.

  “I’m in programming.”

  “And that means?”

  “Oh, c’mon, do we really have to talk about work stuff?”

  “No, not at all, but I would like to talk to you more. I’m stuck in Traffic and want to get out.”

  “Understand. I’ll call you.”

  While I was walking along the city street to meet him for lunch, I was fired up by a confidence boost because I was one of them, doing what other office workers were doing, breaking for lunch to talk business and getting to know colleagues outside of work.

  Len stood up from his table and waved me over.

  Dressed in a suit that echoed warm summer breezes—a soft blue linen pleated skirt and a long jacket I had made years earlier—I wore the flowing outfit well. The look on his face, as if a beam of light had fractured the dim dining room when I entered the restaurant, validated the impression I’d wanted to make.

  “Thanks for having lunch with me. I really appreciate it. Just being able to talk to others outside the department is great. I’m trying to move to the next level.”

  “Should we order?” he said. “So, where are you living now?”

  “I’m in Evanston. Moved from my mom’s condo in Buffalo Grove.”

  “I’m not far from there, living with my two boys. I’m divorced.”

  “Well, my parents divorced when I was fifteen, and we had to sell our house in Deerfield. I had to grow up fast,” I continued. “It really wasn’t a big deal for me. Dad wasn’t around much anyway, but then Mom had to get a job …”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m just trying to get somewhere, to move up, make more money, have more fun.”

  “I’ll help in any way I can.”

  During my first job out of college, I quickly rallied toward new opportunities. I thought I would get to where I wanted to be if I worked hard, networked with the right people, and proved my abilities. But my expectations fell short, and I turned to desperation by trying to impress this ad agency exec.

  It wasn’t about the guy who made fake body parts, though he had been a welcome surprise and an unregrettable experience. It was about craving validation that I could get to where I wanted to be, the attention that meant I wasn’t being overlooked, and the right personal and business connections to find my belonging, my home.

  I continued to work it out.

  fire only gets me so far

  I was working six days a week at Burnett. On Saturdays, I’d take the 9:20 morning train downtown and catch the 4:40 afternoo
n return. Working Saturdays in winter was an exercise in stamina and will, because that was all I had to get me through a car enveloped in frozen tundra. But as I sat in my car waiting for the igloo to crack under subtle signs of warming, I raised the volume on the radio and let the mighty voice and drum beats of Chaka Khan pull me out of the parking space and push me along in my Renault Fuego. I depended on the Fuego—which means “Fire”—and its spirit and energy for my newly acquired job with the top rolled back on summer days and Bruce “The Boss” Springsteen belting out “Born in the USA.” I needed the feeling that I had control of something, even though it was just the start of the Fire’s ignition to get me to the train station.

  But the Fire only got me so far. I acknowledged how things were losing their stamina: the car’s turbo engine, the novelty of working for the best ad agency in the country, and my mental and physical wellbeing.

  As this new low surfaced, I turned to an open ear to talk through my angst. One Monday morning I called Len.

  “Hi. I thought I’d see what you were doing for lunch today,” I said.

  “Nothin’ but having you come up here,” Len said. “I’ll have the popcorn going.”

  Just how does he know I need to talk?

  I joined him in the screening room, a dark cocoon with two two-seater leather couches in front of two television monitors, a coffee table, and built-in bookcases housing black VHS tape boxes. The room was soundproofed and secure, a good thing to know just in case I had emotional moments. I could smell the popcorn down the hall before I rounded the corner and snuck into the room undetected by others.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” he asked.

  “Oh, you know, a little frantic and tense. What’s going on with you?”

  “Not much, going to New York tomorrow to talk to some big shots who believe they are big shots, but they aren’t really. Forget that. What’s on your mind? I can sure see something’s there,” he said in a whisper.

  “I had my review. I was put on probation, and I don’t know why. I don’t understand this. How in the hell can they put me on probation when I’ve been promoted every year for the past three years? Doesn’t that say something? I honestly don’t know why,” I said in a raised voice while holding back tears.

  Len and I talked often; if not in the evening, he made a point to call me during the day. He could tell when I needed his ear. I made a mental note, acknowledging his kindness and endurance in keeping up with an unhappy person.

  His voice on the telephone signaled to me a go-ahead for an emotional outpouring.

  “Hi, it’s me again,” Len said.

  “You’re working late,” I mumbled.

  “I’m saying the same about you.”

  “You wanna come up?”

  “Yes, but I don’t need any popcorn.”

  I tried to keep it together because letting go in front of a man in his department was unprofessional. Len ushered me into the screening room and shut the door.

  “I’m at the end of my thirty-day probation and I think I’m going to get fired,” I said.

  I held my head down. I looked at my lap, where my sweaty folded hands sat in a tidy knot.

  I remembered when I knew I wanted to be in account management but realized I’d have to leave to get there. The push to find an agency and the right job was overwhelming. And here I was, in the process of being pushed out while counting on something better for me. But maybe it wasn’t a matter of finding something. It was not a “something,” but a believing in “it.” What exactly was “it,” though?

  One Friday night, I went to see Pat in his show at the Roxy, a nightclub with a bar in one room and a small theatre in the other. We hadn’t seen each other in months, but it didn’t matter. I really sought comfort in the happiness I’d once known by connecting with him. When the spotlights cast down on him onstage, I noticed he had cut his hair and was wearing that small diamond earring I remembered. My rock star! Pat looked down at me and smiled as the cast lined up and took their bows. His smile was familiar, my connection.

  I was seeking a secure place at a time when my insecurities and vulnerabilities were raw. The few hours’ distraction granted me an escape to a time where I’d smiled often and giggled uninhibitedly. I was better only insofar as I realized how far I had come from reaching for the stars in Pat’s car to now, when I was reaching for professional success. But I still didn’t belong anywhere or with anyone.

  I recognized Len as a friend who gave his every effort to make me happy and do anything he could to help me get what I wanted, but I failed to acknowledge it. I had validation and belonging in front of me, but I didn’t embrace them, and I didn’t know why. I was selfish because I was using him for support and comfort. I feared he would realize the only time I called him was when I needed attention and to complain and spew my unhappiness, my toxicity onto an otherwise happy and optimistic person. But no matter how much happiness he wanted to infuse in me, to get me where I wanted to be, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it because I needed to do it myself.

  Len remained my true friend, despite my inner turmoil and consistent drama as we continued to exchange phone calls.

  thick skin

  I spoke daily on the telephone with Cliff, a sales rep from outside the office. His calm voice was quiet, with a deep, slow cadence contrasting to the chaos surrounding me on my work floor. Though I had never met him, I imagined what he must look like—dark hair and eyes, polished, a strong and silent type—based on the tone of his voice.

  One June afternoon, I attended a Cubs baseball game at Wrigley Field. Sitting under a blue umbrella sky with the sun warming the top of my head, I stared at center field where the confines met the ivy-covered redbrick wall. I could see forever. My desire to run and to fly into the sky and be caught by a cushioned wall gave me a renewed spirit to relax, breathe deeply, and roll with whatever pitch was thrown to me. The ballpark was a magical, happy place where spirits of competition came together and free wills were wrapped in a game that was so American.

  As I sat there, I recognized a familiar voice.

  “Hi, I’m Cliff.”

  “Hi. Nancy. And it’s finally nice to meet you in person.”

  “Likewise.”

  “I didn’t realize it was you who was sitting next to me. So, you are the one responsible for us being here? Thanks for the tickets.”

  Cliff was tall and well built, with curly dark blond hair and hazel eyes that squinted when he smiled, revealing a set of dimples that complemented his tan face. I chuckled at the thought of how he looked so different from the image in my imagination.

  “So, do you keep a scorecard?” he asked.

  “No, I’ve never done one before. But you look like you always do these things.” I said, pointing to his filled-out card.

  “No, never have. Just copied the batting lineup off the board over there. Looks like I know what I’m doing, though, doesn’t it?”

  “You look like a serious Cubs fan now, mister.”

  We quickly became best friends first—a marker before I could maybe, possibly, just perhaps call him a boyfriend. I had come a long way since my college days when I questioned if someone I’d just met could be a boyfriend before any friend-making could be developed. It had also been a long time since it wasn’t always about my own drama.

  I had expected challenges when making friends in the city, but when I met Cliff and our friendship continued outside work, I confirmed I’d met my marker. The ease with which this relationship progressed was affirming. We walked our city; stopped to visit Andy’s, a jazz bar; and had dinners steeped in laughter and fun. However, one Sunday afternoon when we returned to my apartment after brunch, we couldn’t come to an agreement on what to do next.

  “Ugh. It’s hot. The sun, it’s in my eyes. I’m sweating, sticky,” I moaned. “I can’t just lie here. It’s a stellar summer day. Let’s do something. Let’s take a walk.”

  “No, no, I don’t want to walk,” he said.

  “Le
t’s get over there,” he said, pointing to the bed as if answering its call.

  We lay spread-eagle on the firm surface. I anticipated his intention.

  “Umm, this will be … my …” I said in a whisper, “my first time.”

  I braced for a halt. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t get up. He looked at me, smiled, revealing those dimples, and blushed. His affirming reaction made me realize that everything would be just fine.

  “Well, I just thought you might want to know that …”

  I felt silly about my declaration, as if my confession were a prerequisite for further intimacy. We had found something we agreed on.

  Sleeping with my best friend was a natural progression in the relationship, a new way of knowing intimacy and connection. I was taken back to when I was fifteen and wanting a male’s touch and attention, and to an understanding that I wasn’t ready to handle sexual intimacy in college. When I was ready and it was right, I made the connection.

  We spent the summer together, one that included my birthday celebration on a dinner cruise on Lake Michigan. This was a special event because I usually spent my birthday alone with not a celebratory thing about it. He was a gentleman, something I found attractive, along with his gestures—his hand on the small of my back, searching to put my hand in his, his eyes looking into mine and speaking to me in smiles. The small intimacies were attachments I found comforting, like home. Now that I had a job—even though I was miserable in it—and a boyfriend, I wondered if the two would ever be balanced where the job was just as exciting and challenging as the boyfriend. As it turned out, after that summer, it was the boyfriend who became less exciting and more challenging. Our busyness was no longer mutual. His desire to go out, to even connect with me, waned.

  It was a beautiful fall day, and I suggested we take a drive north to the suburbs. “I’ll even drive. The day’s on me,” I said, in an overt attempt to create a fun and pleasant experience.