From the Eyes of a Juror

by Frank Terranova

  Chapter 64 – Landslides and Falling Stars

  Saturday afternoon June 14, 2008 – 4:00 PM

  After coming to a binding, if rather nonverbally communicated, truce, Frank Newlan and his high school sweetheart, Marianne Plante, found themselves engaged in an extended session of madly passionate lovemaking for the remainder of the morning and well into the afternoon until finally they succumb to exhaustion and drifted off to sleep in each other’s arms; both of them physically sapped of every last ounce of energy that their aging bodies could muster; both of them emotionally drained by the lingering aftereffects of their suddenly torrid affair.

  However, before the consummation of their mid-afternoon sojourn, Newlan and Plante went traipsing around from room to room, and from position to position, all in a futile attempt to make up for twenty years of lost time. They went from Newlan’s black leather sofa to his semi-private deck. They went from standing, to kneeling, to lying down. They went from left to right, from side to side, from top to bottom, from East to West…and all stops in between.

  As a matter of fact, the former couple renewed their acquaintances with such a reckless abandon that it was almost maniacal in its intensity. In short, the reunited lovers couldn’t get enough of each other.

  Newlan wasn’t quite sure where this day was leading to, if anywhere, and so he made it a pressing point to squeeze in enough pleasure to last him a lifetime’s worth of pain. He wasn’t sure when, if ever, he would even see Plante again, never mind make love to her, and so he ravaged her body in ways that were almost savage in their urgency.

  Unbeknownst to Newlan, Plante had also fallen prey to the same sense of uncertainty which he had been brooding over, and as a result, she enthusiastically pleased him with just as much vigor, if not more, throughout the entire course of their midday romp, right up into their naptime.

  At just around 4 PM, Plante groggily regained consciousness, and when she realized the lateness of the hour, she woke up in a startled panic.

  “Oh my God, I gotta go pick up the kids from my parents’ house. My mother’s gonna be a nervous wreck wondering where I’ve been all day,” anxiously exclaimed Plante as she hastily got herself dressed while at the same time checking her cell phone, which she had turned off specifically so that she wouldn’t be interrupted during her lustful quest for redemption.

  Once Plante was fully clothed and sufficiently calmed down, Newlan drove her back to the mall, but just before she exited his red Mercury Mystique, they couldn’t resist the temptation of giving each other one last, long kiss goodbye.

  And as Newlan wistfully watched Plante putter off into the sunset, he felt a sudden twang of sorrow gnawing at his heartstrings like a classically trained musician running a bow across the bass strings of a cello; he felt that same old unresolved fear of abandonment resurfacing from the depths of his despair like a nuclear submarine emerging from the deep of the ocean; he felt a familiar ache of tormented affliction ripping him apart like a paper shredder chewing up a crooked politician’s secret documents.

  …

  Meanwhile, at the same time that poor Frank Newlan’s beat-up old automobile, not to mention his beat-up old heart, was slowly dissolving into nothing more than a distant red spot in Marianne Plante’s rearview mirror, she zigged and zagged her subcompact sedan through the cross-town traffic in a frantic attempt to make her way back to her parents house on the other side of town as quickly as possible.

  Within seconds of Plante arrival, her two daughters, Terry and Debbie, were at her side and greeting her warmly with a loud warble of “mommy” as they each took a leg and wrapped their arms around her like a brightly adorned rope to a Maypole.

  However, unlike her daughters, Plante’s mother Marie didn’t appear to be too happy to see her, and Planet understood full well that she was in for one hell of a tongue-lashing as soon as she saw the cold stare that dear old mom was sending her way. And to make matters worse, her father Sal ignored her altogether, which was a sure sign that he was even more upset with her than her mother was.

  “I need to have a private, grown-up talk with mommy, so why don’t you girls run along out into the yard and play for a while,” politely requested Mrs. Plante, and of course her granddaughters obediently obeyed her command.

  And once the innocent children were well out of earshot, Plante’s mother tore into her.

  “Where have you been all day? You said you were going shopping for a couple of hours and that was over six hours ago. I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I’m sorry mom…I lost track of time,” hesitantly explained Plante.

  “Well, you could have at least called and let me know you were going to be late. I tried calling your cell phone at least ten times, but you didn’t even have the courtesy to answer,” angrily replied the elder Mrs. Plante.

  “I said I was sorry ma…now can we just let it go,” demanded Plante; she was hoping that maybe a more forceful tone might put an end to her mother’s inquisition, but alas it wasn’t to be.

  “If you’ve been shopping all day, then where are your bags?” wondered Mrs. Plante, the elder, in an accusatory tone; a tone which made it clear that she wasn’t about to let it go so quickly. But regardless of reproachful tones, Plante stubbornly denied any wrongdoing whatsoever.

  “Mom, I just didn’t end up buying anything, that’s all…why the third degree all of a sudden?”

  “Why the third degree you ask? Well I’ll tell you why…because your daughters have been crying their little eyes out all day over the fact that you and your husband have apparently been fighting like cats and dogs for months now,” protested Mrs. Plante.

  “Please mom, stop…I don’t want to talk about it,” pleaded Plante, and then, as much as she hopelessly struggled to stay calm, she began to cry herself as well.

  “I’m sorry honey…I just want to help,” professed Mrs. Plante as she took her grown daughter into her arms and rocked her like a baby.

  “I don’t know what’s happening between us mom, we use to get along OK…but now he’s so mean and grouchy with me all the time…always complaining about something,” admitted a tearful Plante.

  “Maybe you two should try counseling, it’s helped lots of other couples,” suggested Mrs. Plante, but her proposal only made matters worse.

  “You don’t understand mom, Tommy’s been getting abusive lately, first emotionally, and now physically…and I’m afraid he’s gonna harm me, or even worse the kids. I’m afraid he’s gonna kill us all,” confessed Plante as she rapidly went from tears to sobs.

  Up to this point in the discussion, Plante’s father had stayed out of the fray. He had always believed that it wasn’t his place to get involved in his daughters personal affairs, but upon receiving a verbal confirmation of his son-in-law’s violent streak, a personality trait which he always had a hunch existed, he went completely berserk.

  Salvatore Plante was a decorated ex-marine, and even now, pushing 75, he still looked as if he might be able to hold his own against most men half his age; a fact that came out loud and clear in his response.

  “If that son of a bitch ever so much as lays a finger on you, he’ll have to deal with me. You tell him that Marianne…you understand me. I’ll kill the bastard,” roared Sal Plante.

  Although Plante was somewhat alarmed by her father’s reaction, she nonetheless found his hotheaded words somehow comforting to her, and she hastily exchanged her mother’s arms for his strong embrace.

  However, in the end, the swirling mix of emotions bouncing around Plante’s brain proved to be too much for her and as she held onto her grumpy old dad as tightly as she could, she wailed out her apologies.

  “I’m so sorry daddy. I think it’s over between Tommy and me. I think it’s over for good…and I know I’m disappointing you, but I can’t help it…because I just don’t think I can take it much longer.”

  Despite his tough exterior demeanor, Mr. Plante fought hard to hold ba
ck his own teardrops as he consoled his only daughter like only a doting father can.

  “It’s OK honey, everything’s gonna be alright. Don’t you worry your pretty little eyes out about a thing… and remember, as long as I’m alive, you’ll always be daddy’s little girl.”

  Plante’s parents took her, each by a hand, and they guided her over to the sofa where they sat on either side of her…and after an extended bit of coaxing, they convinced her that everything was truly going to be alright, in a hopeful way that only the combined efforts of a pair of loving parents can pull off.

  It was right about then that Plante began to suffer from a bout of remorseful guilt due to her earlier untruthfulness, and so she reluctantly came clean.

  “Mom, I’m sorry, I wasn’t totally truthful with you. I didn’t go shopping today. I went to visit Frankie Newlan. Remember him? He was my boyfriend from high school,” acknowledged Plante, and the mere verbalized formation of Newlan’s name, drifting slowly out of her mouth, triggered a moist, burning, throb of pleasure in her loins. But nevertheless, in spite of her sudden candor, she still wasn’t quite ready to be completely truthful just yet.

  “Now don’t go getting the wrong idea…we’re just friends…but I needed someone to talk to, and he was nice enough to meet me for a cup of coffee,” insisted Plante with mixed results.

  Plante could always pull a fast one on her father, but her mother wasn’t so easily fooled. Mrs. Plante didn’t challenge her daughter, but she could see right through her every word. The sultry look on Plante’s face when she mentioned Newlan’s name told her mother everything that she needed to know.

  “Of course I remember him. Don’t you remember me telling you that he works at Tafts, and that he was asking for you a while back,” reminded Mrs. Plante, and she went on to extemporaneously vouch for Newlan’s character. “He’s a fine young man…and he’s very highly regarded around the University.”

  “That scrawny kid from high school?” laughed Mr. Plante as he thought back to the day that he nearly broke Newlan’s hand when he shook it for the first time.

  But while Mr. Plante playfully disparaged Newlan, Mrs. Plante turned to her husband and forcefully added to her personal reference; “For you information Sal, that scrawny kid turned into a very successful professional who I understand makes quite a bit of money…although, for some reason, he never married.”

  “Well, he always was a smart kid,” conceded Mr. Plante with a shrug.

  “He’s a great guy, dad…and he’s doing better than I could have ever imagined,” gushed the younger of the Plante women.

  “That shows what I know. I wouldn’t have bet a penny that that kid would make something of himself…but I always did like him…at least he was a polite kid,” acquiesced Mr. Plante.

  “I wish I could let them know how much I still love him,” silently mused Plante, but for the time being, all she was willing to confirm was that “he’s the sweetest guy you could ever meet.”

  However, the senior Mrs. Plante’s cautious reply had her daughter thinking that dear old mom was somehow reading her mind, and maybe she very well may have been.

  “Honey, you really need to think through the implications of whatever it is you are planning to do,” counseled Mrs. Plante. And as much as she wanted to, Marianne Plante realized that it was much too soon to reveal anything more than a scintilla of information regarding Newlan to either of her parents. But nonetheless, she replied as honestly as she could for the time being.

  “Mom, I don’t even know what I’m gonna with myself just yet. But whatever I do, you’ll just have to trust me that it will be for the best.”

  “What, are you thinking of hooking up with this Newlan kid?” wondered Mr. Plante in an incredulous tone.

  “Dad, like I just got through saying, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. But whatever happens, Frankie will always be special to me. And by the way, he’s not a kid anymore. He’s nearly fifty years old…and if you haven’t noticed, I’m getting up there too.”

  “Why the hell didn’t he ever get married? Is there something wrong with him? Maybe the equipment isn’t working quite right…although we know it wasn’t a war injury. That kid wouldn’t have lasted a day in the service,” joked Mr. Plante.

  “I don’t think that’s his problem,” replied Plante with a knowing smile, while at the same time the afterglow from her long overdue encounter was still causing the blood to course through her veins at an accelerated rate, leaving her face flushed with color, and her mind filled with fanciful delights.

  In any event, after what seemed like hours spent discussing her husband, her future, and Frank Newlan, Plante and her parents were all left feeling slightly better about the situation.

  Mr. Plante had initially wanted to call the police and have his daughter fill out a restraining order, and if all else failed he vowed to take matters into his own hands; but luckily, cooler heads prevailed.

  Plante convinced first mom, and then dad, that maybe she was overreacting, even though deep down inside she knew she wasn’t. She agreed that she would attempt to reconcile with her husband, and if things didn’t work out, her parents assured her that she could move back in with them until she was able to reestablish herself.

  And so with her parents sufficiently satisfied that things would indeed turn out alright, Plante rounded up the kids for the ride home, and they exchanged hugs all around.

  Plante drove as slowly as possible as she and her daughters made their way back to the dreaded hellhole that her home had become, and as if on cue a nostalgic song from her younger days, a song brimming with special meanings, came warbling out of the tinny FM radio of her cramped little car; it was Fleetwood Mac singer Stevie Nicks’ ode to her own father, entitled “Landslide” and the words hit Plante like a ton of bricks.

  Plante instantly recalled her own independence day, and how her tough-guy father cried like a baby as he walked her down the aisle. But now it was Plante who was bawling like a lost child over the lyrical words being emitted in the form of Ms. Nicks’ beautiful voice; words that were being broadcast across a wire, as if by magic; words that tell a coming-of-age story which we all go through at some point in our lives; words which so effectively paint a tender picture of a life experience that is common to us all.

  The intricate finger-picking of the acoustic guitar had a hypnotic effect on Plante and when the sentimental chorus kicked in, laced with metaphors about how time boldly changes us all, she found herself tearfully singing along.

  And as the achingly yearning tune played itself out in the darkness of the night, Plante’s daughters became ever so aware of her muffled sniffling, and they curiously wondered why the sudden outburst of tears.

  “Don’t worry girls…it’s just that this song is making mommy sad,” explained Plante, which, for the sake of her naive children, seemed to be as good of an answer as any.

  After a bumpy ride filled with the emotional turbulence of a jumbo jet caught in a hurricane wind, Plante finally pulled into the oversized driveway of her stately home, and as she turned off the ignition, she suddenly came to the realization that somewhere along the way, she had become bolder. Somewhere along the way, she had somehow managed to set aside the painful thoughts of her old man (both her father and her husband), and instead she focused her joyous thoughts on one man, and one man only; Mr. Frank Newlan; nonstop, which helped her make it through this rocky flight into the lonely night.

  Newlan’s scent still clung to Plante’s clothing, and as she lifted off her pink shirt, she held it close to her face and inhaled his aroma.

  Plante could almost feel the pitter-patter of Newlan’s very being crawling inside of her, searching out her womb in a desperate attempt to keep the race alive. And although she was reaching the outer edges of fertility, she prayed for an immaculate conception just the same. She prayed for a bountiful Godsend. She prayed for a miracle child; a child for which she would have gladly give
n up her very life to bear.

  Just before Plante put her daughters to bed, they kneeled by their bedroom window and the three of them held hands and prayed together. And as they prayed, a bright light came shining across the sky like an aurora borealis, and then it disappeared into the night just as quickly as it had arrived.

  Perhaps it was a falling star. Perhaps it was a meteor. Perhaps it was something bigger than us all. Plante wasn’t sure, but she took it as a sign; a buoyant sign from above.

  “Make a wish, girls,” appealed a serene Plante, and as she tucked her daughters safely into their sheets for the night, she made her own wish; a solemn wish for the safe return of her Savior.

  With her children sound asleep, Marianne Plante finally snuggled herself off into bed for the evening, and when she closed her eyes she dreamed of motherhood. She dreamed of Sainthood. She dreamed of days gone by. She dreamed of mystical times; ancient times; otherworldly times.

  And when the sandman came along and sprinkled his stardust upon Marianne Plante’s brow, he plunged her into an even deeper sleep; and as she awoke from one divine dream and drifted off into another, she found herself wandering through Bethlehem, accompanied by a lonely man who was searching in vain…for a glorious home…that he had yet to find.