Authors: Tom Winton
Looking into her eyes I nodded, told her I was staying at the Holiday, and that, sure, we could meet at the bar, have a drink.
Chapter 30
I can't tell you what exactly I was thinking, just that my mind was a whirlwind of anticipation when I pulled onto the bustling boulevard, smack in front of an oncoming Suburban. When I suddenly heard the blaring horn almost on top of me, I snapped back into the here and now, stopping short, half-in half-out of the lot. Luckily, the driver stomped his brakes in time. There was an elongated screech and instantly I smelled the cloud of hot molten rubber rising off the road. For the next mile or so the driver stayed glued to my bumper, sitting on his or her horn and with damn good reason.
I was still a wreck ten minutes later when I pulled into the parking lot at the Holiday Inn. Being early, and a Tuesday night, there weren't a whole lot of cars outside the lounge. I got a spot right next to Theresa's car. As I turned into the slot, my headlights illuminated the inside of her Mercedes and I saw it was empty.
I walked toward the entrance tucking the back of my shirt in a little deeper. Out of nervous habit, I swiped my comb through my salt-and-pepper mustache a couple of times. When I did this small ritualistic gesture it brought back one of my life's biggest memories, my first date with Theresa, when I was walking to her house, to be exact. I remembered how upset I'd become after checking myself out in that car window, discovering that ripe zit in my reflection. As anxious as I was at that teenage moment, it was nothing compared to how I felt now at forty-three, now that I was about to find out the answers to so many questions, uncertainties that had torn at my soul for well over half my life. Although through the years I had never stopped fantasizing about this moment, I never thought it was possible that I'd ever actually see Theresa again. Who would have dreamed? I would. Lord knows how many times I dreamed about it. But in all those subconscious wanderings, I always woke up before I could ask Theresa the first question, the biggest question:
Do you still care?
I would always wake to the black emptiness of night before the answer came and, for the past twenty years, to Maddy Frances in bed beside me. But it would be different this time. This was no dream and there were hundreds of southern miles lying between Maddy and me.
I looked up to the dark sky and I saw more stars than I had since a spring night in 1967.
The lounge was almost as dark inside as it was out in the Atlanta night. A good-sized oval bar was off to the right, maybe a third of its stools occupied; vacationers, business-types, probably a few locals but Theresa wasn't there. To the left the bandstand was deserted, though it was set with instruments and sound equipment. In front of it was a small wooden dance floor that could accommodate maybe ten couples. I looked beyond it, to the smattering of small round tables. Each was covered with red cloth and topped with a candle, flickering, red globe-candles that somehow, if for only a fractured second, brought my mother's tea cart altar to my mind's eyes.
Only three of the tables were occupied. At one, four women still dressed from the office were drinking, smoking cigarettes - one a cigar - and chatting away in earnest. At another table, a secretive couple sat too close and appeared too romantic to be married, although they both sported rings. Beyond them I spotted Theresa, sitting at a table back by the wall.
As I approached her, especially after seeing that couple, I felt a stab of guilt when she said, "Dean … look at you … you look terrific, a regular knight in shining armor." The knife in my gut turned a bit when she said that. How many times over the years had Maddy Frances called me that?
Masking my guilt the best I could, I sat down and said in a good-natured tone, "Oh stop, Theresa."
"No, seriously, it's obvious that you exercise, work out or something.”
"Yeah, I try to keep moving." I took a cigarette from a breast pocket and holding it up said, "You don't mind, do you?"
"No," Theresa answered tentatively, "I don't mind." Then a melancholic smile lit her face. She leaned toward me, elbows on the table, resting her chin on two small fists, and she said, "Remember that old Zippo you used to have?"
This small recollection of our common past comforted us both. The stiffness of our reunion vanished that quick. Poof, it was out of there, making it easy to lead into the conversation we had both longed for, a talk neither of us thought would ever take place, and would not have if Theresa hadn't noticed mention of my book signing in the Atlanta paper.
With a slow heave of breath I answered her question. "Yeah, I remember it OK. That was a long time ago, wasn't it, Theresa?"
She nodded slowly, wistfully, several times in succession and dropped her eyes to the gold rings on her wrist. She toyed with them for a moment before raising her exotic doe's eyes to mine. "Where do we start, Dean? Should we begin with who we are now or where we left off?"
"How about who we are now, then we can go back from there. Margaret Mitchell wrote 'Gone With The Wind' that way, from the end back to the beginning, and it turned out to be one hell of a story, didn't it?"
"It sure did, Dean, the best story ever."
At that moment we both fell silently into the warmth of each other's eyes. Together we went back twenty-five years to the balcony at the Keith's RKO theater. Theresa's lower lip began to quiver. Then the waitress came to our table. We straightened up like two school kids caught cheating on a test. The bottle-blond had obviously approached Theresa before I had gotten there.
"Are you ready to order now?" she asked in a syrupy, Southern accent. Theresa ordered some kind of fancy sounding red wine and I a bottle of Miller Lite.
The waitress left and I carefully punched out my cigarette so it wouldn't smolder annoyingly. I put my elbows back on the tabletop, my chin on folded hands and studied her for a few seconds. She did the same. Self-conscious of my own voice, I asked her a question I'd pondered for years, "How's life been to you, Theresa? From the looks of you I'd say pretty darn good. You still look magnificent."
"Yeah, Dean, magnificent," she said as she began twirling my cigarette pack on the table cloth. Then she looked at my face which must have been shimmering red from the candle like hers was. She picked up the cigarettes and slipped one from the pack.
"Do you mind?" she asked.
"Course not. Go ahead."
Holding it to her lips with one hand, she lightly laid her other on mine as I held a lit match. I wondered did she do it to steady me or did she just want to touch me. I didn't want her to take her hand away. If she hadn't, I would have kept my hands cupped there even after the flame burned into them.
She took a drag, exhaled slow and long at the ceiling. Christ, she was sexy! Looking at the cigarette, assessing it, she said, "I haven't had one of these since … since a few months after I last saw you." She studied me fondly, sniffled once and said in a somber tone, "Let me ask you a question, Dean. Do you think it's possible that life can be both wonderful and tragic?"
"Sure it's possible. Substitute the wonderful part with just OK, and I couldn't describe my own life any better."
The waitress came back with our drinks now. I leaned back in my seat and then forward again after she set them down. When she walked away, I said, "Tell me about the terrific part first." The time wasn't right to talk about us yet.
She took a dainty sip of wine, while carefully gathering her thoughts. "Remember how even in high school I was so hung up on the future, how getting an education and ahead financially meant everything to me."
"I don't know that I'd call it being hung up but, yes, I know those things were important to you."
"You sure know how to phrase things. No wonder you're a writer. Anyway, yes … financially I`ve done better than I ever could have hoped. I … I mean we have … my husband … Lauren … and I, have everything you could want, two nice cars, a beautiful home and no mortgage! We've even got a terrific chalet, up in the Smokies, in Highlands. Do you know where that is, Dean?"
Son of a bitch! I thought. She-is-married! Sure, I'd noticed she was wearing rings, but I'm a guy, I didn't know if they were just for decoration or what. Hell, half her fingers had rings on them. I hadn't had time to study them.
"Yeah," I said, getting back to her question. "I've heard of the place, of course. I used to work for the post office, and some of the guys had places up there, Maggie Valley, Murphy, Highlands. A lot of people in South Florida go up there for the summer."
"It's unbelievable, Dean. Eleven acres on a mountain top with a view that would make an atheist believe."
I smiled at that. "Maybe you should try a little writing."
She laughed, a small girlish giggle, and playfully waved me off with her hand. I took another swallow of beer while she continued.
"I've even got a place in Florida, in the Keys, a stilt house on big Pine, on the bay side."
"Are you kidding? I'd kill for something like that. I love it down in the Keys." I was about to say 'We love it down there', that Maddy Frances and I had gotten married there, but not wanting to screw up our conversation's continuity, I withheld those truths and plenty more--for the time being anyway. It was just a temporary sin of omission, if you will, but it brought on another guilt pang. Again, I'd betrayed Maddy who was at home with my children, waiting for her husband. Again I took a swallow of beer, a much bigger one this time.
"I've also got a very lucrative stock portfolio," Theresa continued, "an IRA and full ownership of four Century 21 agencies here in Atlanta."
I let all this get to me. Theresa's success made me feel small. All I had to show for all the years that passed between us was two jalopies and a partnership with First Federal on a salt box house in dire need of new roof. And some partnership that was, eleven years in that house and we didn't even have 25% equity yet.
But, forget that. The inadequacy I felt now transcended mere finances. I had let this get to me. I'd let this news of Theresa's wealth reduce my own self-image, and that is the most important thing a person has to hold onto. I felt like slapping myself in the head but I caught myself. .
Nevertheless, it was a colossal understatement when I said, "Sounds like you've done OK."
"Yeah, I've done OK, alright, so OK that I'm on my third marriage. Dean … I've failed horribly at what's most important. I've been so caught up with making money, I never had time for any of my husbands. And now … this time … I'm married four years and it's not working out. He … my husband, Lauren, is senior vice- president of a large plastic manufacturer here in Atlanta. His job takes him away a lot, probably like seventy percent of the time. And me, I'm always on the go. You can't imagine what running four very busy C-21 agencies is like. We're talking twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Lauren and I spend less time together than people in commuter marriages do. Dean, every time our paths cross, I feel further estranged from him. I don't love him, Dean. I don't think I ever did. I know I didn't. I didn't love the two before him either."
She leaned over the table. Her deep brown eyes had moistened and now I could see the candle's red reflection shimmering in them. Somehow, even though I hadn't been with her, it hurt deep inside knowing she had been so miserable all those years.
"I was hesitant all three times, Dean. It just never felt like … like I guess what you might call fairytale love. I began to question my feelings, my emotions, my expectations. Maybe love just couldn't be like I thought it should be. Maybe I was looking for an emotion too profound. Maybe I was too idealistic. I don't know. Anyway, I went ahead and made three drastic mistakes."
The waitress brought over fresh drinks. Theresa dropped her eyes to the designer purse on her lap, began fumbling with it so the waitress wouldn't notice her eyes all welled up. After the waitress cleared away our empties and went about her business, Theresa dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex.