“That’s my girl,” John said. He poured me another glass of wine. Sipping it, I could picture my desk, and the bills getting paid that night.
FIVE
The Proposal
I paid the movers, closed the double doors, and turned back into the two-story foyer. Here I was again, back home in Concord. I called out for John.
“I’m back in the bar. Almost got the liquor put away,” he said.
He’s so cute,
I thought, happy as a lark. But nothing could dissipate the cloud of desperation that hung over my head. Fervently I hoped our plan would work. It just had to!
“The movers are gone,” I yelled back. “Let Gobi and the cats out of the sewing room.”
I slipped off my shoes. The cool dark oak parquet floor refreshed my aching feet. If only it could refresh my aching soul. I turned right and sat down heavily on the step of the sunken living room. I was exhausted, not so much from the physical activity of packing and moving, but from the mental strain. Stirred emotions surfaced, bringing up the memory of problems I hadn’t bargained for. Initially, Bryan had accepted our moving plan, but everything went downhill from there. John’s commission checks continued to be delayed, and Bryan asked for an additional two months. All this stretched out our move-in date and aggravated our financial situation. The stress took its toll on my body. I had fainted at the annual blood drive at work.
“You have an extra heartbeat,” the doctor told me afterward. “Been under any stress lately?”
“Not really,” I said. How could I divulge my secrets to a stranger? How could I reveal my worry about strained finances, Bryan’s delays, John’s family? No, I couldn’t tell. I had become a master of denial. Besides, this was a private matter, and I was sure I could find a way to handle it myself.
Sitting there on the living room step, though, I was engulfed in the pain I had experienced in this room, this house I had helped build over seven long years, and the pain of my failed marriage. I hugged my knees to my chest and sighed. In this room I had made one of the most important decisions of my life, a hard, lifesaving decision. My eyes brimmed with tears at the memory.
“Here now, what’s this?” John said as he stepped into the living room and sat down beside me. Tenderly he lifted my chin with one finger as he wiped away the tears. “Today is a happy day. Why the sad face?”
My emotional dam burst. I buried my head in John’s chest and sobbed. I sobbed about the way Bryan’s affairs had loomed over our marriage, even as I labored to make it work. I was a good little Catholic girl clinging to my vows. Divorce was a sin, unmentionable. But no matter what I did for him, Bryan’s demons couldn’t be exorcised. The schism between us magnified and opened up a chasm neither of us could bridge.
I struggled with the words as I told John how Bryan had slowly distanced himself from me, emotionally and sexually, about how our marriage turned platonic. We became business partners, cordial to each other, but apathetic, and always busy. Busy finishing the house, busy building our cabin in the Sierra foothills, busy doing anything, everything to keep from communicating.
I sat up and looked into John’s blue eyes and continued.
“Intimacy vanished. Evaporated. The void devoured me. One day I put a cassette into the tape deck, turned the receiver to full volume, and sat right here, where we are now, as Donna Summers blared ‘Enough Is Enough.’ As I listened to the throbbing beat something happened. I joined in, defiantly belting out the words, as loud as I could. ‘Enough Is Enough!’ It boosted my courage. ‘Enough Is Enough!’ I stood and firmly planted my feet. ‘Enough Is Enough!’ I’m getting a divorce.”
“Whew,” John said. “Some pretty strong emotions got stirred up, didn’t they?” I nodded as he gave me a warm smile.
“What say we try to get rid of them,” he beamed. “Let’s plan a party.”
I love a party as much as anyone, but my mouth fell open at John’s suggestion. “A party? We’re not even settled in yet, and there’s so much to do, to get the house ready to sell.”
“I don’t mean right away,” he countered. “I was thinking about a barbecue and swim party on Labor Day weekend. That’s a month away. This house is perfect for parties, so spacious and well laid out. It’d be a shame to let a holiday go by without one.”
John bubbled over like a little boy with a new toy. He wanted to show off his new house and share his good fortune with our friends, to show them a good time. His enthusiasm was contagious, and I couldn’t resist.
“I’ll even do all the cooking,” he bribed, enveloping me in a bear hug.
“Okay, okay. I give in.” I laughed. “We won’t be here long, so we may as well have one big, blowout party.”
We chatted about whom we’d ask, what we’d serve, getting sillier and sillier as we concocted the lists. Tired as I was, it felt good to plan something joyful together. I had no idea that John had a plan of his own, a long-term plan that was about to unfold.
“You know, this is a great house,” John said.
“Of course it is. I built it. Remember?” I teased, jutting out my chest in exaggerated pride.
“No, no, I’m serious,” he continued. “It’s too bad we have to sell it after we fix it up.”
I started to respond, but he held his index finger to my mouth. “Shush. Before you comment, I have something important to say. Wait. I need some stuff from the kitchen first.”
He struggled to get to his feet, holding on to one of the decorative poles separating the living room from the foyer, and winced.
“Damn back and neck!” he exclaimed as he shuffled off to the kitchen.
This man of mine, I mused...so mysterious, so loving, so full of surprises, and in such constant pain. It tugged at my heartstrings. I heard him ramble about, open the refrigerator, move some boxes, then a distinct
pop.
“Need any help?”
“No, thanks. I have everything under control.” John walked back through the foyer holding a bottle of champagne and two paper cups. At his side Gobi padded along, head raised, sniffing for a handout.
“Well, almost under control. I couldn’t find the champagne glasses, so these will have to do.” He handed me the bottle and paper cups, then hunkered down beside me. Peaches and Patches scampered into the room, investigating their new digs.
“Here, let me pour,” he said, taking the bottle as I held the cups for him. He set the bottle down between us and raised his paper cup.
“I’ve always told you my time with you has been the happiest of my life,” he said, “and I really meant it. So here’s to the woman who has made me the happiest man alive.”
I smiled and touched my paper cup to his. We both took a sip. Not to be outdone, I raised my cup. “And here’s to the man who lights up my life.” We both sipped once more, basking in the afternoon sunlight filtering in from the upper foyer window. Then, gently and with purpose, he reached over and took my right hand in his.
“You have made me very happy,” he said. “There’s only one thing that could make me happier. Would you be my wife? I want to marry you and spend the rest of my days with you.”
It was the declaration my heart had been aching to hear for the last six months. He wants me to be his wife. The admiral’s wife!
“I don’t know,” I blurted out, surprising even myself. I looked down at my hands, at my feet, everywhere but into John’s eyes. The proposal had caught me surprisingly off guard. Instead of triumphant joy, I tumbled into an abyss, lost in the world between good and bad, positive and negative, fighting my inner self for control of my boundaries.
What young woman in her right mind would give up sex for the rest of her life? Am I really happy? Isn’t this just like last time? But no,
I argued with myself,
unlike Bryan, John can’t help his health problems, can he?
I was being unfair, judging him and projecting the hurt from my last relationship onto this one. It wasn’t that John didn’t
want
to make love. At least he wasn’t cheating. Besides, he showed his love in sweet gestures, in buying me presents, in cooking dinner, in rubbing my feet as we watched TV. He was definitely affectionate with me, and I enjoyed our time together.
My finances have never been so bad. I’m constantly stressed out and embarrassed by his habitual overspending. He’s too irresponsible.
I countered these thoughts, too. Finances were strained at the moment, but John’s sizable checks, however erratic, did appear. He promised to get Vestico under control or find another consulting job. He’d already sold his house. I knew we could count on that money, even though it was seven years away. If things got really tight, there was always his inheritance, controlled by his grandmother. Surely she would help John out by advancing some of his share if he were facing a true financial hardship? Also, we planned to sell the Concord house and move back to Antioch. The finances could be handled.
What about his angry outbursts? How long before he hauls off and hits me? What about his threats to leave?
I asked myself. Those concerns hadn’t reared their ugly head for some time. He hadn’t hurt our pets since the night with Peaches, and he’d never, ever hit me. If we were married, he wouldn’t be able to leave so easily. My whitewash brush was busy making everything clean and fresh. I was a woman in love.
How about John’s arrest?
Oh, yes, the arrest. The month before our move, John was arrested and booked on felony grand theft, over four Remington Rand typewriters. I was devastated and scared. It had to have been a misunderstanding, otherwise Ted would not have put up his motorhome as bond. John’s explanation sounded reasonable. He had purchased the typewriters for his school for schizophrenics and was waiting for his stipend from the state to pay for them. A mistake. It was all a big mistake. He’d be able to get the charges dropped. I stopped asking questions and stuffed this in my sack of things to deal with later.
As boundaries disappeared, happy thoughts flooded in and I felt more pleasure than pain. Saturday nights were no longer lonely. Travel, one of my passions, was exciting and adventurous. Mexico. St. Croix. Where else might we go? Best of all, our relationships with my family and friends blossomed.
My denial and neediness worked overtime.
All couples have issues to work through,
I reasoned.
Ours will be financial.
I knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I made John’s life better. He had said already that his time with me was the happiest in his life, and it would improve once we ironed out our difficulties. My resolve strengthened. I would get him reunited with his family. I would take care of him when he was sick. I would provide him with my family and new friends. I would get him to change his spending habits, to become financially responsible. If anybody could do it, it would be me. Yes, me. I could fix anything. I just had to put my mind to it.
For the second time in my life, sitting on that living room step, I made a major decision. Unlike the first time, I wasn’t feeling trapped, defiant, aching for something more. I was making a happy decision, positive, and invigorating. I felt in control of my future. I was charting a new course for my life’s journey. We had been together for more than a year, and I knew all I needed to know about him. I looked into John’s blue eyes.
“Yes, I will marry you, John. I can’t think of anything better than being the admiral’s wife.”
It had been a fun day, exhausting but exhilarating. The barbecue and swim party had turned out well. The weather was sunny and warm, and the financial clouds had dissipated for the time being. The last of our guests, including Pam and George, straggled to the door.
“Thanks for the great party,” Pam said as she hugged me. “I’ll call you tomorrow to make the list for your bridal shower.”
“Pam’s such a good friend, isn’t she?” John remarked as he closed the door.
“Yes, friends like Pam are few and far between. George, too. I’m glad they found each other. Just like we did.”
I started picking up party remnants.
“Let’s not do this now,” John said as he walked into the kitchen with another load of dirty glasses. “Let’s go relax in the hot tub.”
“What a delicious proposal,” I said. “Last one in gets to finish the cleanup.” We both laughed.
“I’ll pour us some champagne,” John called as I went to get dry beach towels.
The warm, circulating water relaxed my aching muscles. I laid my head back and closed my eyes. “This is the life,” I drawled. “There’s nothing like a redwood hot tub to help one communicate with nature.”
We both sat in silence in the therapeutic waters, sipping our champagne, each caught up in our own thoughts. Finally, John broke the silence. “Glad we had the party?”
I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Yes. You always seem to know the right thing to do.” He looked so relaxed, so happy. This seemed like the perfect time to bring up something that had been bothering me.
“John, have you told your family yet that we’re getting married?”
He hesitated, as if afraid his answer would break the spell. “Turn around and I’ll rub your shoulders.”
“Don’t use diversionary tactics on me, Mr. Military Man,” I warned as I turned my back to him. “Did you talk to your family or not?”
His strong hands began to knead my neck and shoulders. “Yes, I’ve talked to them, all of them, one by one.”
“Well?”
He repeated the same story I had heard many times. They were unhappy. I was a gold digger after their family fortune. Millions were involved. Worse, I was driving a wedge between him and his family. They were emphatic about not attending our wedding, as if that were going to keep us apart.
I knew then that I had to try harder to talk to these people, and soon. They just had to meet me and see us together. Then they couldn’t deny how happy we were with each other.
“Your muscles are tensing up,” John warned. “Relax. Think about this wonderful house and all it has to offer.” His fingers ran up and down my spine.