A Man Named Dave (32 page)

“The thing is,” Patsy went on, “for both of us Stephen was the best thing in our lives. I just wanted something more, that’s all.”

“No matter what, I want to be friends,” I said. Patsy immediately nodded. “I mean it. I don’t have many friends, and I think we deserve to give each other that.” I stopped to take in a deep breath. “One more thing …”

“Oh, my God!” Patsy gasped. “You’re not going to tell me you’re gay?”

I coughed before I could reply. “No! What made you think that?”

“Well,” Patsy said, recovering, “I just thought, I mean, you live in Guerneville and all. You don’t go out. What’s a wife to think? You leave me to go live down there …”

I brushed off the statement. “Listen, please. I just want you to know, you were right about the office in Lincoln. I found out a few months ago. I was mismanaged. That’s why I couldn’t get enough gigs. And the books, they were ‘printed’, they were never published. They weren’t even copyrighted! That’s why they weren’t in the stores.”

“
The Lost Boy,
too?” Patsy inquired, my second book, which Jerry had about insisted that I write. I nodded. “Jesus,” Patsy scolded, “how could you be that stupid and allow so many people to take advantage of you like that? As smart as you are, I’ll never understand you.”

I thought of myself from years ago. “I dunno,” I replied. “Ever since I was a kid … I never had the guts to really speak up for myself. I was always too intimidated. Even now as an adult, whether it was Jerry at the Lincoln office, buying a car, sticking up for myself so no one could walk over me or, no offense, even with you, I couldn’t do it. I … it was easy for me to do for others, but not for myself.”

“David,” Patsy sighed, “it’s different with me … I’m your wife.”

I nodded, but more to myself. “All that changes now.”

“So, what are you going to do? Sue ’em?” Patsy had a gleam in her eye.

“No.” I shook my head. “It’s not the money, it never was. I don’t want a dime of something I didn’t earn first. It’s a matter of honor. The worst thing I could do to them – to anyone that screws me – is have nothing to do with them.”

“I think you’re stupid. I’d stick it to them but good. So, what are you going to do to protect yourself?”

“Simple,” I said, smiling, “trust no one.”

“You do that, and you’ll be a lonely old man, David Pelzer.”

“I know,” I sighed. “But I just can’t allow myself to be hurt again.”

“I don’t know what you think of me; I know I’ve burned a lot of bridges with you, but I’d never screw you, David,” she stated.

“I know. It’s going to be okay. I swear, I just want you to be happy, that’s all.”

“Well,” Patsy gushed. “I am. I mean –”

“I know,” I interrupted. “I’ve known for a while. Are you happy? Is he good to you? To Stephen?”

“Yeah.” Patsy beamed. “Guess you can say I finally got myself a real cowboy.”

“And please,” I begged, “be careful. We’re adults, but I don’t want Stephen to get hurt any more than he has.”

“So, what are you gonna do?”

Without hesitation I said, “Be a good father and carry on. I’m not going to quit. I’m going to work hard and see it through.”

“David,” Patsy snapped, “I’m not talking about work, or Stephen. I know you’ll be a good father for him. For once in your life, what about
you*.
What are you going to do for you?”

For a moment I felt the magnitude of Patsy’s question. I sat hunched over, stymied. “I don’t … I don’t know. Just live my life day by day. That’s all I can do. I just don’t want to repeat the same mistakes all over again.”

Patsy shook her head in disbelief. “My God, after all these years … you’re still carrying her shame.”

I had no response. I truly felt like a leper when it came to being close to anyone besides my son.

As we got up to leave, Patsy and I embraced. “I’ll always hold a place in my heart for you, David Pelzer. You’re a good man, and for God’s sake go out there and live a little!”

“Thanks, Patsy, you have no idea what that means to me. I pray for you every day. Godspeed, Patsy,” I stated.

“Good-bye, David.”

“Good-bye, Patsy.”

We soon filed for divorce. Less than thirty days after our divorce was finalized, Patsy remarried.

Between Stephen and my work, I deliberately stayed to myself. Overall I was content. On a good week, when I felt I earned it, I would venture “out there” and treat myself to a movie. Working for myself proved more difficult than I had expected, yet I loved every minute of it. After purchasing the rights to my books from the Lincoln firm, I quickly found two publishers who wanted to publish the books. Even though I knew I could receive a better deal with a New York publishing house, I signed with a smaller publisher in Florida, partly because for years I had admired the works of their authors John Bradshaw and Jack Canfield. I assumed a smaller publisher would be able to spend more time marketing and promoting my books.

Within a few weeks I received a call from an assistant editor who introduced herself as Marsha Donohoe. We spoke about the changes she wished to make and the schedule of publishing my first book. After hanging up the phone, I could not help but think what an incredible voice she had. Before my mind began to wander, I pushed Marsha out of my mind by burying myself in my work.

Months passed. The more Marsha and I discussed every page, every paragraph, analyzing every word of the book, the more I found myself becoming enthralled by her. Besides having the sweetest voice I ever heard, I respected the passion she had for her work. I understood that editors could not afford to spend much time on any particular project due to the overwhelming amount of deadlines within the publishing world, yet because Marsha and I cared so much about the story, we would spend more than an hour wrangling over a single sentence. “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” I told her one day. “I don’t understand; I usually catch a lot of flak for trying to do my best. Why are
you
doing this?”

“I may be new here,” Marsha confided, “but I’ve been involved with books all my life. And I gotta tell you, this book is one in a million. I swear to God, I couldn’t put it down. Before I even called you, I believed in this book. With all my heart, I believe in what you are doing.” Raising her voice with excitement, Marsha said, “Do you know how many lives you’re going to change with this? I don’t know you that well, Dave, but I think you’re one incredible person.”

I pressed the phone so hard against my ear that I thought it would bleed. Not being used to compliments, I immediately mocked her. “I bet you say that to all the authors!” A second later, I said, “You believe, I mean, you truly believe I’m doing the right thing?”

After our conversation I sat frozen in my chair. I couldn’t believe my luck. After all these years and endless battles, I was working with someone who had the same values as I did. “She believes!” I said out loud. “Marsha actually believes in me!”

I never intended to cross the relationship between editor and author, but I lost myself as I savored every word of every minute Marsha and I spent on the phone. It was easy for me to become fascinated with her. At the end of editing each page, we would reward ourselves by telling stories and exchanging jokes. I soon became caught up not only in Marsha’s sense of humor, but in her work ethic and her honor. Over time, as she began to tell me about her struggles and disappointments in life, I realized the incredible willpower she had. Marsha never quit. Whenever she applied herself, she gave it her all. We made a pact that we could talk to each other about anything at any time. Marsha became my one true friend.

Unexpectedly, weeks later after the end of one of our editing sessions, I leaned back in my chair, slowly exhaled as I closed my eyes, and imagined Marsha’s smile and the way she might toss her hair when she laughed. Before I could allow myself any sense of pleasure, I buried my affections. I knew Marsha was way out of my league. She was by far the kindest, most sensitive person I knew, while I was a hyperkinetic geek boy with baggage, hiding my insecurities behind my work and manic sense of humor.

Marsha never gave up on me. Because of the graphic nature of some parts of the book, more than once she broke down and cried on the phone. One day, without thinking, I nearly swallowed the phone as if to get closer to her. “Mar, it’s okay, honey, it’s all right. That was a long time ago. It’s over; it’s over now.” A second after the words slipped out, I backtracked, “Mar, listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to seem forward … please forget what I just said. Please?”

“It’s okay. Precious,” Marsha sighed, “your book has become my baby. And when someone holds a place in my heart, I protect them. I just wish I could have been there for you. You’re just so precious to me. Please don’t apologize, we’re friends. I’ve been waiting for you to say something to me.”

“I, uh …” I paused, thinking of her. “I, uh, just don’t want to hear you cry,” I stammered, still holding back. “I just don’t want you to be sad. Believe me, I’m fine. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

“Dave, we’ve been working together for some time now. I know what you look like from the back cover of your book, but … can you see me?” Marsha whispered.

Hang up the phone!
my brain screamed.
Before you screw up and say something, hang up!
As my grip tightened against the phone, a surge of energy seeped through my heart. “Yeah,” I gasped into the phone – my only lifeline to Marsha. “Sometimes, at night, when everything is still, I’ll walk outside and look up at the stars … I’ll close my eyes …” I stopped.

“Dave, please, go on. I know it’s hard. I know you’ve been through a lot with your childhood, all you’re trying to do, your divorce, your son … but just say something, say anything. I won’t hurt you. I promise, it’s okay.”

Closing my eyes, I prayed for Marsha to keep talking. Letting out a deep sigh, I said, “Sometimes, at night, before I go to sleep … I can see your face …”

We stayed on the phone from nine that evening until three in the morning. Afterward, I strolled out into a swirl of gray fog that had begun to settle in the trees. I knew everything about Marsha, down to how she breathed. Looking up, I thanked God.

Maybe, I thought to myself, maybe.

Marsha and I began dating on the phone. Four months later, as our friendship and our personal feelings for each other grew stronger, we decided it was time to meet.

I was a nervous wreck the day Marsha was scheduled to fly in. I almost crashed my 4-Runner as I daydreamed about Marsha on the way. Hours later at the airport, I kept readjusting my clothes to look absolutely perfect for her. I felt like a schoolboy on a blind date, fearing she might think I was ugly, or laugh at me if I said the wrong thing. But by far my biggest anxiety was what if, after all our late-night conversations, romantic courtship, and reams of letters and cards we had exchanged, I froze up and never let her get close, just as I had with Patsy? What if I could not break through to how I wanted to feel? For me it was as it always had been: what if I could not open my heart and let Marsha in? I started to panic, and imagined myself fleeing before things became too deep. Part of me wanted to drop the yellow rose I was holding behind my back and run out of the airport terminal. “For God’s sake,” I said to myself, “who are you trying to kid?” With my head bent down, I found myself taking a step backward, then another step. I swallowed hard, thinking that in the end Marsha would understand – she was just too good for me.

As I turned away a sudden shimmer caught my eyes. As the passengers streamed from the terminal gate, one person stood out among the throng of people. Marsha’s alluring eyes and shiny auburn hair almost made me faint. With my mind racing, I imagined myself strolling over to extend my hand to introduce myself properly. I didn’t want to seem too desperate or too forward.

But I threw away my apprehension. To hell with that, I thought to myself.

We awkwardly ran into each other’s open arms. Holding her tight, I could feel Marsha’s heart race. “I can’t believe it,” she cried as tears fell down her face.

Lowering my defenses, I whispered, “Hello, princess.” For a few moments the world stood still. When I finally took a long look at Marsha’s face, rather than kissing her, I closed my eyes and ran my fingers along the side of her face to the base of her neck.

Leaning her face into my hand, she sighed, “Whatever you do, don’t let go.”

“Hardly a chance,” I replied.

Wiping her tears away, Marsha shook her head. “Dave, I’ve dreamed about this day for a long time. Don’t let me go.”

The next several days Marsha and I were inseparable. We spent every waking moment together. While clutching our mugs of coffee, we’d chat outside for hours at a time. As I grew fascinated with her, Marsha seemed to absorb every detail of my life, to the point of insisting to see the summer cabin where I had stayed as a child. Trying to recapture the magic that had captivated me so many years ago as a child, we stood holding each other, watching the sun set beneath the redwood trees as the sky turned from blue to orange. With every passing hour, I found myself stripping away layers of armor that I had worn as my defense from years of internal battle. Marsha became the only person to whom I could bare my soul.

The days passed by too quickly. The day before Marsha had to return home, I began to pull back. For me, the cold reality was that Marsha lived thousands of miles away – with a job, a great family, and a real life. I didn’t want her to become any more entangled in my warped world. As much as every fiber of my being craved to be with her, the only way to keep her as a close friend, I thought, was to set her free.

After sitting outside, stirring our coffees that had grown cold in silence, Marsha tossed her hair and asked, “Dave, is it me? Did I get too close?”

With tears beginning to build, I shook my head. “No, it’s not you. It’s just, it’s me,” I stammered before swallowing hard. “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”

Reaching out to hold my hand, Marsha probed, “What is it, Dave? What are you so afraid of?”