by Jim Kraus
Rufus stayed mostly quiet during our walk that night. He asked me if I had a good time, and I said I did. He always asks me what I ate. I told him shrimp and Key lime pie. And he asked me if I brought any home to him. I had to tell him I didn’t.
“Have I had Key lime pie before? Is it sweet?”
“It is sweet. And I am pretty sure you haven’t ever eaten it.”
We walked along, and just as we returned to the house, he asked, “The next time you have Key lime pie, could you bring me some? I would like to try that. It has three names. I don’t think I have eaten anything with three names before. It sounds really tasty.”
And I assured him that I would.
We fell asleep, in our tidy, snug little home, white with green shutters and a picket fence, and the faint hissing of the surf as it rolled into shore and receded back again.
I think I was happy.
18
True to his word, Billy B did call on Wednesday. He proposed a Friday night date. Dinner, he said. Someplace local. Since I hadn’t been here all that long, he suggested that I might appreciate going someplace I probably wouldn’t go by myself.
He seemed to be intuitive that way. Maybe he faced the same single person problems that I did. Maybe not, since men can get away with a lot more than women can in that department. No, I am not being a feminist, but a man can more comfortably go into a restaurant by himself. A woman by herself—well, I just think that some people will have the wrong idea of what sort of woman she is. For a woman to walk alone into a tavern, let’s say—people will think she’s on the prowl. A man does it and no one thinks it odd or unusual at all.
It’s the way of the world. And no, I’m not angry about it. I’m not going to picket taverns here to raise the consciousness of the culture. And besides, I never go to taverns. Unless they have really good ribs.
Since a second date was planned, I asked Rufus what he thought about Billy B. We were on our nightly walk along the ocean. We walked down a block to a public access point on the beach, and walked down a small wooden walkway and up the beach for about a half mile, where another public access point cut through the dunes to the beach. So Rufus and I were back on our large circle-walking pattern. I liked walking by the beach. The sound of the waves simply washed any cares from my mind—at least while we were walking. The hush and flow of the waves would be great therapy, if doctors could make money on prescribing it. Perhaps when the weather turned stormy, I might have a different opinion. But now, in the calm, in the warmth, I loved it.
Rufus did too. He treated the narrow spit of sand at the edge of the water as the only probable route. He still avoided water when he could, but if it washed onto his paws, he made no complaint. “I like it here,” he said more than once. “I’m glad you moved us here.”
Back to Billy B.
Rufus must have trouble with remembering men’s faces, because at first, he could not recall Billy B. I had to explain the baseball cap, the man who brought the large piece of stone, and he still could not place him.
“The man who ate the Key lime pie with me,” I finally said.
“Oh, that man. I know him. Will you have Key lime pie when he comes next?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “But do you like him? Is he a nice man?”
Rufus stopped and walked very deliberately around the small carcass of a jellyfish. I told him to avoid the blobby things because they could sting him. He had been stung by a wasp back in Illinois. He had yelped at that, and had licked the bite area incessantly for two days. I told him it was like a wasp, only that jellyfish didn’t fly. After that, he kept his distance from all beached jellyfish.
“Well, I don’t have special dog ability to tell if someone is nice or not. I don’t think I do, anyhow. He is nice to me. He bends down to pet me. And he’s careful with my ears. Some people are not. He is careful. He smelled okay. A little like sweat.”
I took that as an endorsement. And it made me feel a little giddy at the same time. I could imagine myself with this man. And that, in itself, felt like something entirely new. Perhaps Brian, back in Wheaton—the man who I punched in the throat—had opened the door a bit to the possibility of another man in my life. After the accident, I couldn’t even imagine being with a man. I felt I could be accused of cheating, or committing adultery. Now, time had passed, and distance. I could now think of a future in which I did not live alone. And not just with Rufus. With another human being.
And that made me giddy, a little. Sort of.
Egads, to think I once made a semi-pro living at using the right words in the right way. Perhaps that skill has vanished as my ability to think of men arose, like a phoenix, in my life.
The rest of my possessions arrived from Wheaton, placed flatly in my driveway in a large blue-and-white container. The delivery service offered assistance in unloading. I knew furniture had been packed inside, so I took advantage of strong men who knew how to heft a sofa up stairs and through doors.
I set up a second sitting area upstairs. The sofa from Wheaton went there, along with the two upholstered chairs that had been in my kitchen. That was the big stuff. I had them pile all the boxes in the dining area of my first-floor living room area. The stack intimidated me. Having only a smattering of possessions had felt liberating, and now this influx of stuff seemed constricting. It made me feel claustrophobic almost.
They emptied out the container in less than thirty minutes. Now I faced the task of either finding a place for everything or reducing the pile through giveaways.
I hung the pictures in short order. The few photos of John and Jacob were hung in the master bedroom. Somehow, I didn’t want them more shared than that. The lamps were really needed. This house did not have recessed lighting as did my house in Wheaton, so dark here was darker than there. I quickly went through the clothes, and filled three medium-sized boxes with items that I knew I would never wear again. The next-door neighbor had told me that she has one pair of long pants, and the rest of her wardrobe consists of shorts. I would recycle five of the six pairs of wool pants I had packed.
Rufus sniffed and nosed about the boxes, as if he was looking for some item misplaced. He did find his favorite squirrel plush toy. He did not destroy toys like some dogs. He chewed off the eyes, but the rest of the animal remained intact. For the rest of the afternoon, he sat on the sofa, watching me, with his head resting on his old squirrel.
A few boxes were filled with personal items, photos, and memories. I did not want them on display, nor did I want them discarded. Upstairs, I had access to an enclosed attic area, about the size of two large closets. I had that filled in short order with all the too-meaningful-to-toss items, which I could close the door on.
After I finished, I had marked for charity perhaps one-third of the items I brought with me to North Carolina. I felt a bit more burdened, but not overwhelmed. I called the Salvation Army and asked if they would be interested in picking up my unwanted items. They were, and two days later, my place returned to being clear and sparse again.
And then Billy B called and the world was a good place again.
Friday evening came and Billy B arrived, on time, in a button-down shirt, a very well-fitting blue sport coat, and slim-fit khaki pants. He had warned me that he would be dressed in “business casual.”
“I know women get nervous if they feel over- or under-dressed. And I don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable.”
He had made reservations at Shepherd’s Point, in Morehead City, across the sound—another restaurant I would not have gone to by myself. Too nice, too romantic, too much a couples place.
They had Key lime pie listed as their signature dessert. Rufus would get his wish after all.
As I had the waiter box up a two-bite section of the pie, Billy B stirred his coffee.
“It’s for the dog, right?” Billy B asked.
“Maybe. If he’s lucky. If I don’t eat it on the way home.”
“Don’t worry. Every once in a while I have to stop at McDonald’s
and get a cheeseburger for my old basset hound. He loves their cheeseburgers. And fries. But not often. He’s old and you have to watch their cholesterol.”
The dinner was so nice, the conversation so natural, it felt as if we had known each other for years and not weeks. Billy B seemed to have friends all over town. Three people stopped by our table to say hello. Of course, he introduced me, as a proper gentleman should.
“It’s a small town, Miss Mary. You live in one place long enough and you’re bound to know a whole lot of people.”
I decided to ask the question that had been at the back of my mind since the first time I had considered accepting a date with Billy B.
“So tell me—how come you’re not married? I know, I know, I don’t have to know . . . and you don’t have to tell me anything . . . but when you pass a certain age, that question sort of sits out there, waiting to be asked. You know what I mean?”
If the question rattled him, he appeared adept at hiding it.
“No. I mean, I do know what you mean. And no, there’s no problem answering it. I guess I am surprised that you didn’t hear about it from someone else.”
I braced myself—mentally only, I hope.
“Who would I have heard it from? I’m new here, remember?”
“Your next door neighbors. The Phillipses. They knew all about it.”
Alarm flags were flapping in the storm, but I forced myself to remain dispassionate and calm—on the outside.
In jail? Arrested? Embezzlement? Something really horrible?
“I was married. To my high school sweetheart. We were great for fifteen years.”
I waited. I didn’t want to seem like I was prying. But now I was desperate to know. Not desperate. Well . . . maybe a little desperate. And more than a bit scared, I guess.
“We had a wonderful marriage. We did. Everything was great. Never had children; that bothered both of us. But it didn’t overwhelm us.”
He took a sip of coffee.
I really wanted the express version of the story.
“Then, five years ago, she fell in love with the pastor of the church we were attending. I didn’t suspect a thing. I really didn’t. Then all of a sudden she left. Packed up all her clothes and moved out. While I worked on a job. She called me that night and said it was over. She planned on starting a new life with him. She said he was her true soul mate. And she wanted a divorce.”
I started to breathe again. A divorce, I could handle.
“I didn’t want to let her go. So I put up a fight. And this went on while the pastor still preached at the church. The congregation started to take sides, and some blamed this one or that one. Some of them thought I should accept it and move on. Some wanted me to leave, like it was all my fault. Some wanted the pastor excommunicated—or whatever Bible churches do. But I didn’t want any of that. I wanted my old life. I liked my old life.”
The waiter came to our table, a little reluctant to break into our conversation, though he did have the bill in his hand. I apologized, and ordered coffee, after declining it before. It is not that I needed to be awake, but I needed something to do with my hands.
This isn’t a deal-breaker. It doesn’t sound like it was his fault. I mean, every relationship has ups and downs. Is any divorce absolutely one-sided?
“It went on for six months. Finally, I had had enough. I knew she was never going to change her mind. I relented and allowed the divorce to happen. Fighting costs a lot and doesn’t change the way people feel.”
I added three sugars to the coffee, two more than I normally do.
“Is the pastor still there—at that church? Did they get married?”
He sighed—a painful sigh. I didn’t enjoy watching him relive what must have been a horrible time, but I did want to know.
I had a sudden and small epiphany. I understood why people wanted details of my husband and son’s accident. Not because of morbid curiosity, but because they needed to feel some manner of closure as well.
“He is still at that church. And they are married. The church almost fell apart. Went down to a handful of supporters. But the man is a good preacher. Very charismatic. Very dynamic. I hear people say that the building is almost full again on Sunday mornings. I guess a sinner attracts sinners. People can empathize with him. Maybe that’s it.”
I didn’t know what else to ask. He must have been devastated. Disillusioned for sure.
It seemed as if he had heard my thoughts.
“The funny thing is—you would think that my faith in God would be challenged or shaken. But it wasn’t. I came through this all feeling more protected and more loved than I ever had before in my life. God provided for me when it mattered.”
He leaned across the table.
“What about you, Miss Mary? We haven’t talked about church before. You know . . . the things you never discuss on the first couple of dates—religion and politics. I know you suffered a great loss. Mine was bad, nowhere near as bad as yours. How are you with God? Where’s your faith?”
I tried to speak, but I couldn’t find the right words. But I had to say something.
“Okay. I guess. I . . . God and me . . . well, we don’t talk much anymore. After the accident. I didn’t see why those two innocent people had to die. I still don’t. If it is a lesson I am supposed to learn, I don’t want to learn it.”
Billy B did not look shocked or discouraged or anything. He simply listened, impassively. That was so kind of him. To listen without judgment.
“So . . . I don’t really know about God anymore. I don’t know if I still believe. I don’t know if I want to believe.”
Yes, I know all about Rufus and my pathetic attempts at thinking that he really talked to God, and my attempts at manipulating a Divine being that I was pretty sure didn’t really exist, and if he did, didn’t really care all that much for me. After all, he saved the life of a dog, but couldn’t, or didn’t, spare the lives of two innocent people.
So I decided then and there to be honest with Billy B.
“I’m not against religion, Billy B. But for me, it’s simply caused a lot of pain. Promises never delivered on. So, as much as I might want to believe, I can’t anymore. It’s easier and safer this way.”
He smiled at me. He understood. I know he understood. He cared about me. He took my hand in his, for the first time, and gently squeezed it. “I understand,” he said. “I do.”
He gave me a kiss when he walked me to the door, and a gentle, chaste hug. He again promised to call me.
I was sure that he would. I was sure.
And Rufus loved his pie with the three names. On our walk, he made me promise to buy an entire pie if they sell them in the big food stores. He made me promise twice.
I did. I promised.
And he asked me if I liked this man.
And I told him that I did. A lot.
I assumed that he remained silent during the rest of my walk because he was remembering how good the Key lime pie tasted.
I was wrong.
Billy B called on Thursday. Not Wednesday. I worried a bit on Wednesday, but a day . . . well, that isn’t cause for great concern, now, is it?
My optimism shows how wrong I can be. And was.
“Miss Mary . . .”
“Billy B,” I said, cheerful and happy.
He called. Just like he said he would.
“Listen . . .”
I don’t think I really paid attention to that word. Who starts off a conversation with the word listen? Wasn’t I already listening? And besides, I now felt like this is the place I should be, that Atlantic Beach is just the place that God had in mind for Rufus . . . and me, by default. The perfect house, the perfect neighborhood, and now, maybe a perfect man. Of course, he was not perfect. Just like I was not perfect. But we seemed so well suited for each other. We had the same dreams and the same temperament. And he was wickedly handsome. Isn’t that what kids today say? “Wicked good”? Anyhow, he called and now we would see each other this wee
kend. Maybe I would cook him dinner on Saturday. We could . . . you know . . . snuggle on the sofa as we listened to the waves. Or if it was warm enough, we could sit on the porch, in the new porch swing I would buy tomorrow, and we would swing gently and he would put his arm around me and the moon would come up over the beach . . .
Perfect.
“Listen . . . Miss Mary . . . I am not good at this sort of thing. But it has to be said. Even if I don’t want to.”
Well . . . that’s not how this conversation should start. This doesn’t sound perfect at all anymore.
“Listen. I can’t see you anymore. After we talked last weekend . . . I rolled it over and over in my mind. And I just can’t do it. You don’t believe, Miss Mary. In God. You more or less said so right out.”
Wait. This is all wrong!
“I sort of figured that after my wife and I divorced, that if I ever found another woman that I felt attracted to, she had to be a committed believer. She had to really know God. She had to be on the same page as me. I’m not a teenager anymore. I don’t want to break anyone’s heart—nor do I want to be hurt. Nor do I have the luxury of lots of time.”
I sat down, the world around me gone gray. Not black, but gray.
“It was only a conversation, Billy B. I didn’t really think about what I was saying. Maybe I was just mistaken.”
I could hear him take a deep breath and probably run his hand across his chin.
“No, Miss Mary. I heard that certainty in your voice. It’s unmistakable. I heard it in my wife’s voice too. And faith in God . . . well, I may not pass out tracts on the street corner or raise my hands and yell ‘Praise the Lord!’ all the time, but God is real to me. And believing in him is a huge part of my life. When she left, I promised myself that I would forever remain true to God.”
“But Billy B . . . ”
That’s all I could think of to say.
“I am sorry, Miss Mary. I truly am. You are a really nice person. You are. But if I keep seeing you, then I would be more and more tempted to forget that promise I made to myself and to God. It would be so easy to do that, and I would wind up hating myself—and you. Neither of us has the time to play games. Neither of us is good at charades. And both of us would have to do so much pretending if we stayed together.”
