by Winton, Tom
Her long legs stilted real high, she leaned over the front of the jukebox which allowed her a better look at the selections and me a better look at her solid, half-moon hips and up-tilted behind. Her denim jeans, stretched to the limit, looked like they'd been tattooed on her. Up top she was a little bigger than average, which never hurts. As she leaned a little farther forward to hit the selection buttons, her back flexed, her tube top rode up just a bit further. I found this to be quite sensual and tantalizing.
I took a swallow of beer then, with my tongue all loose and clumsy, I turned to her and managed a line, the weakest of all lame lines. "Heyyyahhh, you come here often? .... I don't think I've seen you before." I followed up those profound words with a lopsided goofy smile.
Despite my lackluster performance, she lifted her head and turned to me, our eyes meeting up close for the first time. She made a quick assessment of my face with these kind looking, outsized eyes that sparkled like green jewels. Remaining poker-faced, except for those eyes that seemed incapable of deception, she answered my stupid question with, "Maybe I've come here once too often."
Instantly I took offense. I'm always quick to take offense because most of the time I go out of my way not to give any. I tried to conjure something nasty to say to parry her snotty remark. But before I could, her lips spread into this magnificent warm smile, an infectious smile like that of a loving mother's, an inviting smile that spoke without words, just like Theresa's used to. It said, I've been looking for you … waiting for you … for a long, long time.
Completely disarmed, my emotions skidded to a stop just short of revenge then pulled back towards civility. Though half-bagged, I still had enough sense to realize some be-bop snappy line just wouldn't cut it this time. I had a strange feeling this wasn't going to be just another one night stand. I sensed she was different, maybe even special.
That quick, I warmed up to this young woman. I didn't even know her name yet. Hell, we'd only exchanged a few words. But still, it was almost like six years earlier, when for the first time in the hallway at Saint Agnes', I saw Theresa. There had been many women since Theresa, but none of them quite like this one standing next to me now. I felt a tinge of hope, a feeling long gone from my repertoire of emotions. I remember thinking, maybe this is the one, the one who can bring me back to life.
Without stumbling on my words, I managed to ask, "Can I buy you a drink?"
"Thanks, but no thanks.”
She punched in her last selection. Neither of us said a thing. She turned back to me again, looked right through my eyes, giving me an opportunity. I wanted to say something but I was at a loss for words. Meaningful words, anyway. The condition I was in sure as hell wasn't helping any. Our brief intimate connection was weakening. I could feel it. She felt it.
Damn! What's the matter with me? Why can't I open my big mouth? I think she's gonna just walk off now? What about that smile she just gave me? Maybe she always smiles that way to everybody. Maybe it wasn't custom made for me.
The smooth continuity of our brief encounter seemed to have run its course when suddenly her face lit again. I thought she was going back to her friends but she didn't. She looked back into my baby-blues and said, "I don't feel like another drink. But … I wouldn't mind taking a walk on the beach, get a little fresh air maybe. You look like you could use a little."
Bingo! Wowwwee! Shazam! She wants to take a walk! Even if she's not Miss Right, who knows, maybe we'll at least get it on, down on the beach somewhere.
There it was again, that irrepressible, primitive male libido at work, always willing, always ready to engage in the act that propagates the species.
But this wouldn't be a one-night-fling. Just like when I first met Theresa, I didn't even think of trying any funny stuff. All we did was walk and walk and walk in the cool night air for several miles on the sand, clear past Hugh Taylor Birch State Park where the beach changes from public to private, all the way to where Lauderdale's condo canyon intrudes the coastline, where so many characterless concrete towers barricade the ocean view and defiantly scrape at the stars. Just before we came up to them, we turned around and headed back toward the Elbo Room.
Though the two day nor'easter had by now lessened to a comfortable breeze, there were still some leftover waves energizing the surf. Large but half-hearted rollers broke lazily along the surf line, intermittently drowning out the man-made clamor along route A1A and the motel row adjacent to it. On the way back we took our shoes off and sloshed through ankle-deep seawater as it washed foam onto the sand.
Just as so many women in my past had told me I was, Maddy Frances Rownan was very easy to talk to. A bit shy when we first left the Elbo Room, she soon loosened up after feeling our good karma strengthening. Without effort, we eased comfortably inside each other's heads. Soon we were hand in hand, talking effortlessly, learning about one another. The only pause in our conversation occurred when we peered out together at a solitary white light drifting imperceptibly in the offshore blackness giving away the horizon on this moon-less night. Then our bare feet still spanking the surf's wash, we resumed our conversation, speaking of the usual things with unusual interest. We were like two strangers who'd seen each other's pictures, liked them, and were now meeting for the first time. We had so many questions, and were so full of anticipation.
It had been a long time since I had this kind of interest in a female.
Chapter 20
During the weeks that followed, Maddy Frances and I came on strong and fast, seeing one another most evenings and every weekend. As always, money was tight but she didn't much care about going out. Our being together was all that mattered to her. Hanging around my place, or her's, was just fine. So was taking a walk, a drive in the car, or fishing from the pier together on a Saturday morning. She'd always ask me what I wanted to do, what I wanted to watch on TV, what would I like her to fix for a Saturday night dinner, should we see this movie or that one? On Sunday afternoons she'd even iron my clothes. Everything she did was for me. For the first time in my life I had the notion that some people actually got satisfaction, even happiness, by doing for others. Of course, I'd heard about such people but had never known any of them, not intimately anyway. As tough as it was for a hedonist such as myself to understand such selfless behavior, I was beginning to.
But, as much as I had come to appreciate Maddy's many sacrifices, they were continually overshadowed by the ghost of Theresa. Yeah, I'd think, Maddy's great, but then cerebral visions of my first sweetheart would appear and quickly diminish her loving gestures.
I cared for Maddy Frances, cared for her a lot, yet my heart still ached for my lost Theresa. Back and forth I went like that, over and over, my feelings jumbled, confused, knotted. Although six years had stolen away since that last night I'd seen Theresa, I still kept the vigil alive. Just like I had in Colorado and back in New York, I continued to look for her every day, everywhere. At clubs, the marina, the beach, while grocery shopping. And yes, now even while out on dates with Maddy Frances. Once again, I know it sounds pretty crazy, the minuscule odds of finding Theresa, but hadn't she lived in Florida for awhile when she was a kid? Before I met her? She might have told me once what town she had lived in but, if she did, I didn't remember. It just may have been Fort Lauderdale. Hell, I thought, with all the New Yorkers that transplant down here, it very well could have been. Maybe her mother had dragged her back here. Though I knew it was a long shot at best, the thought that she could be living in Lauderdale, no matter how remote the odds, gave me hope.
When I used to go to pick-up joints, I always bird-dogged black haired women. I had a thing for them. Italian, Jewish, oriental, Greek, it didn't matter, the longer their hair, the better. As long as they were decent looking, they'd be my first target for a one night stand. Heads of other shades were mere consolations. It was a fetish I didn't need any shrink's help to diagnose.
But none of those raven-haired ladies did much for me, not in the long run anyway. Neither did the redheads, bl
ondes or brunettes. Maddy Frances was the one. By far the best substitute for Theresa I'd come across. The only one! For a long time before I met Maddy, I'd been like a little boy who'd lost his mother sizing up every potential replacement his father brought home. Despite her losing out in most of my unfair comparisons, Maddy was damn good looking, and intelligent to boot. And though she had the kindest eyes you'd ever seen, they didn't fairly represent how beautiful she was inside. To this day, I've never encountered anybody as selfless. Those are the reasons why, despite my confusion and uncertainness, I responded to her startling question the way I did the night of January 15, 1975, only sixty-eight nights after we'd taken that first walk on the beach.
It was a Sunday evening, around 8 o'clock. I had given Maddy a full body message on my sofa which of course led to other things. After making love, still naked beneath the afghan she had crocheted for me, we laid quietly on our sides, clinging to each other in the darkness. Her breath still hot and heavy on my neck, I buried my face in her flowing hair. The scent of lilac enhanced in the dark quiet room, I caressed the small of her back. A moment later, as I slid my hand down to her soft, velvety cheeks and started kneading them, she whispered my name as if it was a question.
"Dean?"
"Yes?"
"Do you realize … how much I care for you?"
My hand froze with one of her cheeks in it. There was a momentary pause before I said, also like a question, "I know you love me." She'd been telling me that for about three weeks.
She lifted her head, brought her face flush to mine. Dark as it was, we could just see each other now.
"I love you more than anything," she said. "I care more … much, much more for you than I do for myself.”
Stunned into silence, I wondered what could be so heavy. What was this leading to? I said, "I love you too, Maddy." And, I meant it. I only wished my love was unobstructed.
"Enough to marry me, Dean?"
My hold on her went limp. I was mummified. This was something I was nowhere near prepared for. A real shocker. Still face to face, I lifted a wisp of hair from her eye, gently cupped the nape of her neck and let out a long sigh. We had grown very close in just a couple of months, but this proposal, despite my impulsive nature, I was not ready for.
"Would I marry you? You mean like … in six months … a year? I'm not sure of your question."
She lifted her hand to my cheek, smoothed it. "Let me rephrase that, Dean." Then she made herself shockingly clear. "If I ask you to marry me … tomorrow … will you say yes?"
"Whooooshhhh, you are serious, aren't you?"
"I love you. I've never said that to anyone. Even when I dated Len for those two years, I could never say that. But with you it's different. You're very sensitive, Dean. Maybe overly-sensitive sometimes, and that's a big part of what I love about you. And … and I've never known anyone as honest. And you're a darn good kisser too," she added, playfully tapping the tip of my nose with her finger, lightening the moment a tad.
Then a warm smile formed on her lips. She brushed my face with her eyes and went on, "I want you all for myself, Dean Cassidy. Let's do something crazy, let's get married tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, but, Maddy … "
"You said you love me!"
"You know I do."
"How old are you, Dean?"
"Twenty-four, almost twenty-five, you know that … quit toying with me."
"I'm twenty-three, and as nuts as it may sound, I've never been surer about anything in my life. You said tomorrow is an off day, no charter. What do you say?" Her eyes still holding mine, she straightened up on the couch and switched on a lamp. I also sat up, took a smoke from the pack on the end table, lit it up.
"Where we gonna get married?" I asked dubiously, more than a trace of annoyance in my tone. Man, I thought, I don't believe this is happening.
"Key West. I've got it all figured out. I'll spend the night here, that way we can get up real early tomorrow, leave while it's still dark out. I'd just have to make a quick stop at my place … pick up a few things. Oh Dean, wouldn't that be exciting?"
"What about your job?"
"I can call Frieda. Darwin's going to be out of town all week. Things'll be real slow. They can get by without me. They won't mind. They'll be happy for me … you know I work for great people. We can drive down to the Keys and get married by a justice of the peace. Fred'll give you a few days off if you call him. Just tell him, you're … we're … getting married. Look, Dean, you know I never push you for anything. That's not my way. Just say no and I'll drop it. I won't pressure you. I won't be mad. We can go on like we have been."
She paused a moment, picked up my hand. Then, while intently watching my face for a reaction, she went on, "I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Dean. If you don't want the same, or if you’re not sure, just say so. I'm only asking because I know I'm ready."
Pensively, I stubbed out my cigarette then looked back at her. When I did, out of nowhere, that booth picture Theresa and I took at Woolworth's, the night we discovered my mother in the closet, flashed crystal clear on my mind's screen. I saw it in black and white but with perfect resolution. I saw every detail. Hell, I should have been able to, I'd looked at it a thousand times. A day never passed that I didn't take it out from beneath the Levis in my bottom dresser drawer. At least once a day I'd look at it, usually at bedtime, if only for a moment, and return to the best of times. What with all the moving around I'd done, that photograph was one the few things that had followed me. But who was kidding who? I'd probably never see Theresa Wayman again. My continuing romance with her had been like a novel with no last chapter. Would I squander the rest of my life in limbo or had the time come to move ahead, to at least try to live again?
Sounding surer than I actually was, I said, "What the hell, Maddy … hell yes. Let's do it."
And, we did. The next morning we got our blood tested at Fisherman's Hospital down in Marathon. This was 1975, before the Keys became so commercialized and congested, the year before America's bicentennial birthday, which was when the southernmost opportunists launched their big-time tourism push down there. It was the height of the season when Maddy Frances and I walked into the tiny hospital's waiting room, yet it was all but empty. The only people there were the two nurses on duty. Both in bare feet. Both super-friendly. We opened up to them instantly, admitted that we'd only been dating for sixty-nine days. They thought it was really neat that we were getting married so spontaneously. All smiles, one of them got up to shoo a stray cat that had wandered in the front door, the other went into an adjoining room to tell the doctor what we needed.
A moment or two later we overheard him telling the nurse, "They're getting married! Why, send them right in. And don't charge them anything. The tests are on me." We were both baffled and grateful that a complete stranger could be so thoughtful. That was the beginning of our enduring (yet bitter-sweet) love affair with the Florida Keys.
Later that afternoon, at the Monroe County Courthouse Annex down in Key West, the justice of the peace was every bit as accommodating as the doc and the nurses had been. "Sure," she said, "I'm not busy. Let's do it right now. Have a seat." She extended her hand toward two empty chairs opposite her desk.
As we lowered our butts onto the wooden seats, a worker from another office popped her head in the open doorway and told the justice she's going out for an ice cream cone, did she want one? "Sure," she said, "chocolate."
Then she looked across the desk at us. "How `bout you kids, would you like one?"
We thanked her, but nervous about the monumental step we were about to take, we passed.
Five minutes later the co-worker returned with two dripping cones wisely encircled in paper napkins and we were Mister and Mrs. Dean Cassidy.
Chapter 21
In the beginning there were many times I had doubts. Had I done the right thing? But doubts are not misgivings, and I was never, ever, sorry for marrying Maddy Frances. She was the proverbial one in a millio
n and I had been blessed to have found her. I would not have lasted with an ordinary girl, nor would an ordinary girl have lasted with me. With us I mean, me and Theresa Wayman. For Theresa would just not leave.
But, as so often is the case in this peculiar life thing, though most days crawled by, the months and years piled up quickly. And things changed. Eighteen months after our Key West wedding, Trevor was born and a year later Dawn came along. They were both still babies, only a few months old, when Maddy had to return to work. Each morning, when she dropped them off at day care, her soft heart would tear a little more. Handing them over was the worst. Every time she surrendered Dawn or Trevor to a member of the ever-changing day care staff, they would wail. And Maddy would cry too as soon as she turned her back to their tearful pleas and flailing little outstretched arms. Rushing back up that walkway to her car, followed by those screams and visions of those tiny red faces and kicking feet, she'd fight the tears. But always she lost. Her make-up always ran as she drove to work. And often, later on at her work desk, when she looked at the pictures of her two babies, her eyes would well.
