She swung her chair around and stared out the window at the office building opposite hers across the Avenue of the Americas.
Maybe I shouldn’t return the call
, she thought.
Maybe I should just pretend I didn’t get the message. That would certainly be the easiest thing to do. I mean, after all, what am I supposed to say to a guy who’s just lost his wife?
She turned away from the window and noticed for the first time seven other pink telephone message slips spread across her desk. A little smirk crept across her face as she scanned them.
Funny no one hand delivered these to me
, she thought.
She sighed and picked up the John Herbert message again. “I can’t not call you,” she said, staring at the name. “I just can’t do that.”
She picked up the receiver and started to dial.
At five minutes after two my intercom buzzed. I picked up the receiver and heard my secretary announce that Nancy Charlton was on line 3 returning my call. I thought I detected a question somewhere in her delivery, but I ignored it and punched 3.
“Hello?”
“Hi. This is Nancy Charlton. I’m returning John Herbert’s call.”
“Hi, Nancy. This is John Herbert. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly.”
She didn’t reply, so I plunged ahead. “I…uh…called earlier just to thank you for agreeing to be a blood donor for Peg. That was very…kind of you, and I…I wanted you to know I appreciated it.”
“Well…that was the very least I could do,” Nancy replied. She paused, then continued. “I just wish I had had the chance to actually be a donor.”
Another pause, but longer this time. “I’m sorry about Peggy. My mother told me she was sick, and then last week she told me what happened. I really am sorry.”
I could tell from the tone of her voice she was being sincere, and I wondered what I should say in response that I hadn’t already said a hundred times. I wanted to say something meaningful—something I hadn’t already said, something that would let her know I appreciated her sincerity—but I realized almost immediately I wasn’t going to come up with anything earth-shattering at that precise moment.
So I simply said, “Thank you.” And then, “I appreciate your saying that.”
Several seconds passed before Nancy spoke again. “How are your children doing? I know your little boy’s too young to know what’s happened, but what about your daughter? Is she okay?”
I hesitated before answering, because I didn’t know for sure how Jen was doing. But I couldn’t say that. “Jennie’s okay as far as I can tell. My mom and dad are taking care of her and my son, and I think that’s making things better than they might be otherwise.”
“Still, this must be very hard for her. I mean, she’s only…what—two, three?”
“Three. Just turned three on August third.”
“So she’s old enough to know what’s happened.”
“I’m afraid so,” I agreed. “Uh…I hope you won’t misinterpret what I’m about to say,” I continued, suddenly reaching a decision I didn’t even know I was considering and ignoring all the rules of propriety, “but…I was wondering if by any chance you might like to join me for dinner Saturday night. I realize it’s probably a crazy idea, but…I could really use someone to talk to.”
Nancy took a deep breath before she answered. “I’m…I’m sorry, but I’m busy Saturday night.”
“Ahh. Okay. Not a problem. I understand.”
What the hell did you think she would say?
the voice in my head yelled.
You’ve just lost your wife, for Christ’s sake. You’re a widower! With two little kids!
“But I’m free Sunday night if that works,” Nancy added.
What did she say?
the voice in my head cried out.
“Yeah. That’ll work,” I answered, allowing a grin to creep across my face. “Absolutely, that’ll work. Great. What time is good for you?”
“I don’t know. Whatever’s good for you.”
“How about seven?”
“Seven’s fine.”
“Seven it is then. And where will I pick you up? At your parents’ house?”
“No. You can pick me up at my apartment. In Roslyn.”
“Okay. Fine. How do I get there?”
“Do you know where Roslyn Road is?”
“Sure do.”
“Well, my apartment’s on Elm Street, which is off Roslyn Road, three blocks north of the Expressway. I’m the third house on the left. Number 66.”
“Got it.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Nancy continued. “Don’t go up to the front door of the house. That’s my landlord’s door. There’s a walk along the left side of the house that leads to my door.”
“Okay, side door it is.”
“You’ll be able to find me okay?”
“I’ll find you. I promise.”
Odd choice of words,
I thought as I prepared to say good-bye.
“I look forward to seeing you Sunday night,” I said. “And thank you for saying yes.”
I heard Nancy exhale a smile and give up a tiny chuckle. “You’re welcome. I’m looking forward to seeing you too.”
And then she hung up.
For the second time that afternoon, I put my hands behind my head, leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling. “Holy shit,” I said out loud.
Got that right
, said the voice softly from somewhere in my head.
“She said yes. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I did that, and I can’t believe she said yes.”
Me neither,
agreed the voice, harsh once again.
You realize you asked her out on a date, don’t you?
the voice continued.
You realize, regardless of what you’re telling yourself, this is a date. Your wife’s not even dead two weeks, and you’re going out on a date! Jesus Christ! I don’t believe you! What are you thinking? Are you thinking at all? Why are you doing this, John?
I had no ready answer. I hadn’t planned on asking Nancy out to dinner, and I certainly had no intention of asking anyone out on a date. But I had to admit the voice was right. Dinner with Nancy Charlton certainly seemed like a date.
With difficulty, I shook off the disapproval I felt deep inside, brought my hands down from behind my head, leaned forward and tried to focus on the paperwork strewn across my desk.
My father’s fork noticeably slowed for an instant as he lifted it from his plate to his mouth. My mother stopped chewing and then swallowed with difficulty. Dinner continued, but the mood at the dining room table changed instantly.
“And what’s her name?” my father asked without looking up from his plate.
“Nancy Charlton,” I replied, feeling like a sixteen-year-old again.
“And how do you know her?”
“She’s our next-door neighbors’ daughter.”
My mother carefully wiped her mouth, folded her napkin and placed it back in her lap. “When did you call her?” she asked.
“Today. From the office. I called her at work.”
“How did you know where to reach her?” my father interjected.
“Her name was on a list of blood donors—potential blood donors, I should say—that I found last night while I was going through some paperwork.”
He gave a nod to indicate he understood, but he said nothing.
For a split second I wondered if his last question, taken in the context of the preceding one, signaled a darker rationale for the interrogation. But before I could give the thought any further consideration, my mother was asking me another question.
“What night did you ask her out for?”
“Sunday night. This coming Sunday night. But only if that’s okay with you guys. If you’ve got other plans or anything like that, I’ll just call her and cancel.”
“No,” my mother replied, “we don’t have anything planned.”
“So you don’t mind if I go out? You don’t mind watching the kids for me?”
“We never mind watching the children,” my father answered, even though I had directed the question to my mother.
I noticed he hadn’t answered the first half of my question.
But what can I expect
? I asked myself.
What would I think if my son asked a woman out to dinner eleven days after his wife died?
“It’s not a date,” I volunteered, immediately regretting that I felt the need to explain. I looked first at my mother and then at my father. “I need someone to talk to. Someone who didn’t know Peg. Someone who’s not involved. Someone who’s…not hurting like we are. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
My father put down his fork and took a sip of his wine before answering. “I can understand your needing to talk to someone, son. I truly can. What I can’t understand is why you picked this Nancy Charlton to talk to. You just saw her name on some list, and you decided to call her. I’m sorry, but that makes no sense to me whatsoever.” He sighed and then continued. “And I have to admit I don’t like the idea of you taking someone out this soon after Peg’s death. I know you need to talk to someone, but…” His voice trailed off.
“I’m not comfortable with the idea either,” my mother said softly, “but I think we have to leave that decision up to John. He knows what he’s feeling, and I’d like to think he knows what he’s doing.” She reached across the table and patted my hand.
“Well, I hope so,” my father replied without much conviction. He started to pick up his fork, but changed his mind. “I have a suggestion,” he said. “If you need someone to talk to, why don’t you give Father Richardson a call? He called when he heard about Peg, and he told me he’d make himself available if you wanted to see him.”
“That was nice of him, Pop, but he’s not my priest, and I wouldn’t feel right imposing on him like that.”
“You’re not imposing on him,” my father pressed. “He offered to help if you thought he could.”
“It’s not the worst idea, I suppose. I mean, he is a priest, and who knows? Maybe he’ll say something that’ll help. Tell you what,” I said after another moment of thought. “If you call him, I’ll see him.”
“I’ll call him first thing in the morning. Should I try to get an appointment for tomorrow night?”
“No, I wouldn’t do that. Tomorrow’s Friday and the beginning of Labor Day weekend. I’m sure he’s got better things to do than talk to me. Why not try for next week? Say Tuesday or Wednesday night?”
“Okay. That’s what I’ll do,” my father said, nodding his head enthusiastically—happy, I could tell, to be charged with the task. Then he looked at me over the top of his glasses and lowered his head as if we were co-conspirators. “I don’t suppose you’d hold off going out with this Nancy Charlton until after you’ve talked to Father Richardson, would you?”
I smiled, not surprised by his suggestion. “No, Pop. I won’t do that. I think I can talk to both her and Father Richardson.”
He gave a grunt and shook his head sadly. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, son,” he said as he picked up his fork. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
Friday came and went, then Saturday, and then came Sunday, August 31st. Mercifully, my parents said nothing more about Nancy or our dinner plans for Sunday night. But they really didn’t have to, given the war that was going on in my mind. A war between emotion and logic, between conventional right and unconventional wrong. A war between me and a harsh, persistent voice I was beginning to recognize as my conscience. A voice that, as one might expect, had been the cause of much pain over the last three days.
But in spite of the voice, here I was standing in the guest bathroom of my parents’ home, staring at myself in the mirror, in the final minutes of getting ready to pick up Nancy.
“Why are you all dressed up, Daddy?” Jennie asked from the hall as she peered into the bathroom.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said while I retied my tie for the fourth time. “Daddy’s going out for a little while tonight.”
“Will you come back?” Jennie asked, her eyes wide with fear.
“Of course I will, silly.” I knelt down to give her a reassuring hug, and my heart ached at the thought of what must have prompted that question. “I’ll be back. I promise. And then tomorrow morning, you and I and John will have breakfast together. How does that sound?”
“Can I have pancakes?”
“You can if Grandma makes them. But you’ll have to ask Grandma because Daddy doesn’t know how to make pancakes.”
“I’ll ask Grandma then.”
She gave me a hurried kiss before scampering down the hall calling “Grandma.” I turned back to the mirror one last time.
I don’t believe you’re doing this
, the voice suddenly said to me from the face in the mirror.
I really don’t believe you’re going out on a date!
“This isn’t a date. I’m just going out to dinner with someone.”
That’s bullshit. And we’ve already been there! You know damn well this is a date.
“I just want someone to talk to. That’s all.”
There were at least five hundred other names on that list. You could have called any one of them if all you wanted to do is talk.
“You know that’s not true. I don’t know most of those people.”
You don’t know Nancy Charlton either. At least not well enough to think you can talk to her.
“I think I can.”
Yeah, right.
“What are you saying? Why do you think I called her?”
I don’t know why you called her. But I do know you used to watch her go to work every morning. And I remember how she looked that day in her parents’ backyard when her mother invited you over for a beer. Remember that, pal? The yellow bikini? And I remember how you and Dave and Frank Bennett used to talk about what a good-looking kid she was. Yeah, I remember that too. So…why do I think you called her? Beats me, but somehow I don’t think it was just to talk.
“Now that’s crap. For Christ’s sake, my wife just died.”
My point exactly.
“What kind of person do you think I am?”
You tell me, pal. You tell me.
I tried to think of a suitable response—one that would both satisfy the voice and stop the warring thoughts. But I couldn’t.
“Well,” I said to the face in the mirror, “I don’t know if calling Nancy was right or wrong, but that doesn’t matter at this point. I’ve got a date to take this lady out to dinner, and I’m sure as hell not going to break it.”
You just said “date,”
the voice shot back.