While I’ll admit that I was serious, Jane was the first to call me shy. We met one Saturday morning at a coffee shop downtown. It was early November, and due to my responsibilities at the Law Review, my classes seemed particularly challenging. Anxious about falling behind in my studies, I’d driven to a coffee shop, hoping to find a place to study where I wouldn’t be recognized or interrupted.
It was Jane who approached the table and took my order, and even now, I can recall that moment vividly. She wore her dark hair in a ponytail, and her chocolate eyes were set off by the hint of olive in her skin. She was wearing a dark blue apron over a sky blue dress, and I was struck by the easy way she smiled at me, as if she were pleased that I had chosen to sit in her section.
When she asked for my order, I heard the southern drawl characteristic of eastern
I didn’t know then that we would eventually have dinner together, but I remember going back the following day and requesting the same table. She smiled when I sat down, and I can’t deny that I was pleased that she seemed to remember me.
These weekend visits went on for about a month, during which we never struck up a conversation or asked each other’s names, but I soon noticed that my mind began to wander every time she approached the table to refill my coffee. For a reason I can’t quite explain, she seemed always to smell of cinnamon.
To be honest, I wasn’t completely comfortable as a young man with those of the opposite sex. In high school, I was neither an athlete nor a member of the student council, the two most popular groups. I was, however, quite fond of chess and started a club that eventually grew to eleven members. Unfortunately, none of them were female. Despite my lack of experience, I had managed to go out with about half a dozen women during my undergraduate years and enjoyed their company on those evenings out. But because I’d made the decision not to pursue a relationship until I was financially ready to do so, I didn’t get to know any of these women well and they quickly slipped from my mind.
Yet frequently after leaving the coffee shop, I found myself thinking of the ponytailed waitress, often when I least expected it. More than once, my mind drifted during class, and I would imagine her moving through the lecture hall, wearing her blue apron and offering menus. These images embarrassed me, but even so, I was unable to prevent them from recurring.
I have no idea where all of this would have led had she not finally taken the initiative. I had spent most of the morning studying amid the clouds of cigarette smoke that drifted from other booths in the diner when it began to pour. It was a cold, driving rain, a storm that had drifted in from the mountains. I had, of course, brought an umbrella with me in anticipation of such an event.
When she approached the table I looked up, expecting a refill for my coffee, but noticed instead that her apron was tucked beneath her arm. She removed the ribbon from her ponytail, and her hair cascaded to her shoulders.
“Would you mind walking me to my car?” she asked. “I noticed your umbrella and I’d rather not get wet.”
It was impossible to refuse her request, so I collected my things, then held the door open for her, and together we walked through puddles as deep as pie tins.
Her shoulder brushed my own, and as we splashed across the street in the pouring rain, she shouted her name and mentioned the fact that she was attending Meredith, a college for women. She was majoring in English, she added, and hoped to teach school after she graduated. I didn’t offer much in response, concentrating as I was on keeping her dry. When we reached her car, I expected her to get in immediately, but instead she turned to face me.
“You’re kind of shy, aren’t you,” she said.
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, and I think she saw this in my expression, for she laughed almost immediately.
“It’s okay,
Wilson
. I happen to like shy.”
That she had somehow taken the initiative to learn my name should have struck me then, but it did not. Instead, as she stood on the street with the rain coming down and mascara running onto her cheeks, all I could think was that I’d never seen anyone more beautiful.
My wife is still beautiful.
Of course, it’s a softer beauty now, one that has deepened with age. Her skin is delicate to the touch, and there are wrinkles where it once was smooth. Her hips have become rounder, her stomach a little fuller, but I still find myself filled with longing when I see her undressing in the bedroom.
We’ve made love infrequently these last few years, and when we did, it lacked the spontaneity and excitement we’d enjoyed in the past. But it wasn’t the lovemaking itself I missed most. What I craved was the long-absent look of desire in Jane’s eyes or a simple touch or gesture that let me know she wanted me as much as I longed for her. Something, anything, that would signal I was still special to her.
But how, I wondered, was I supposed to make this happen? Yes, I knew that I had to court Jane again, but I realized that this was not as easy as I’d originally thought it would be. Our thorough familiarity, which I first imagined would simplify things, actually made things more challenging. Our dinner conversations, for instance, were stilted by routine. For a few weeks after talking to Noah, I actually spent part of my afternoons at the office coming up with new topics for later discussion, but when I brought them up, they always seemed forced and would soon fizzle out. As always, we returned to discussions of the children or my law firm’s clients and employees.
Our life together, I began to realize, had settled into a pattern that was not conducive to renewing any kind of passion. For years we’d adopted separate schedules to accommodate our mostly separate duties. In the early years of our family’s life, I spent long hours at the firm—including evenings and weekends—making sure that I would be viewed as a worthy partner when the time came. I never used all my allotted vacation time. Perhaps I was overzealous in my determination to impress Ambry and Saxon, but with a growing family to provide for, I didn’t want to take any chances. I now realize that the pursuit of success at work combined with my natural reticence kept me at arm’s length from the rest of the family, and I’ve come to believe that I’ve always been something of an outsider in my own house.
While I was busy in my own world, Jane had her hands full with the children. As their activities and demands grew more numerous, it sometimes seemed that she was a blur of harried activity who merely rushed past me in the hallways. There were years, I had to admit, in which we ate dinner separately more often than together, and though occasionally it struck me as odd, I did nothing to change this.
Perhaps we became used to this way of life, but once the children were no longer there to govern our lives, we seemed powerless to fill in the empty spaces between us. And despite my concern about the state of our relationship, the sudden attempt to change our routines was akin to tunneling through limestone with a spoon.
This is not to say I didn’t try. In January, for instance, I bought a cookbook and took to preparing meals on Saturday evenings for the two of us; some of them, I might add, were quite original and delicious. In addition to my regular golf game, I began walking through our neighborhood three mornings a week, hoping to lose a bit of weight. I even spent a few afternoons in the bookstore, browsing the self-help section, hoping to learn what else I could do. The experts’ advice on improving a marriage? To focus on the four As—attention, appreciation, affection, and attraction. Yes, I remember thinking, that makes perfect sense, so I turned my efforts in those directions. I spent more time with Jane in the evenings instead of working in my den, I complimented her frequently, and when she spoke of her daily activities, I listened carefully and nodded when appropriate to let her know she had my full attention.
I was under no illusions that any of these remedies would magically restore Jane’s passion for me, nor did I take a short-term view of the matter. If it had taken twenty-nine years to drift apart, I knew that a few weeks of effort was simply the beginning of a long process of rapprochement. Yet even if things were improving slightly, the progress was slower than I’d hoped. By late spring, I came to the conclusion that in addition to these daily changes, I needed to do something else, something dramatic, something to show Jane that she was still, and always would be, the most important person in my life. Then, late one evening, as I found myself glancing through our family albums, an idea began to take hold.
I awoke the next day filled with energy and good intentions. I knew my plan would have to be carried out secretly and methodically, and the first thing I did was to rent a post office box. I didn’t progress much further on my plans right away, however, for it was around this time that Noah had a stroke.
It was not the first stroke he’d had, but it was his most serious. He was in the hospital for nearly eight weeks, during which time my wife’s attention was devoted fully to his care. She spent every day at the hospital, and in the evenings she was too tired and upset to notice my efforts to renew our relationship. Noah was eventually able to return to Creekside and was soon feeding the swan at the pond again, but I think it drove home the point that he wouldn’t be around much longer. I spent many hours quietly soothing Jane’s tears and simply comforting her.
Of all I did during that year, it was this, I think, that she appreciated most of all. Perhaps it was the steadiness I provided, or maybe it really was the result of my efforts over the last few months, but whatever it was, I began to notice occasional displays of newfound warmth from Jane. Though they were infrequent, I savored them desperately, hoping that our relationship was somehow back on track.
Thankfully, Noah continued to improve, and by early August, the year of the forgotten anniversary was coming to a close. I’d lost nearly twenty pounds since I’d begun my neighborhood strolls, and I’d developed the habit of swinging by the post office box daily to collect items I’d solicited from others. I worked on my special project while I was at the office to keep it a secret from Jane.
Additionally, I’d decided to take off the two weeks surrounding our thirtieth anniversary—the longest vacation I’d ever taken from work—with the intention of spending time with Jane. Considering what I’d done the year before, I wanted this anniversary to be as memorable as possible.
Then, on the evening of Friday, August 15—my first night of vacation and exactly eight days before our anniversary—something happened that neither Jane nor I would ever forget.
We were both relaxing in the living room. I was seated in my favorite armchair, reading a biography of Theodore Roosevelt, while my wife was leafing through the pages of a catalog. Suddenly Anna burst through the front door. At the time, she was still living in
New Bern
, but she had recently put down a deposit on an apartment in
Raleigh
and would be moving in a couple of weeks to join Keith for the first year of his residency at
Despite the heat, Anna was wearing black. Both ears were double pierced, and her lipstick seemed at least a few shades too dark. By this time, I had grown used to the gothic flairs of her personality, but when she sat across from us, I saw again how much she resembled her mother. Her face was flushed, and she brought her hands together as if trying to steady herself.
“Mom and Dad,” she said, “I have something to tell you.” Jane sat up and set the catalog aside. I knew she could tell from Anna’s voice that something serious was coming. The last time Anna had acted like this, she’d informed us that she would be moving in with Keith.
I know, I know. But she was an adult, and what could I do?
“What is it, honey?” Jane asked.
Anna looked from Jane to me and back to Jane again before taking a deep breath.
“I’m getting married,” she said.
I’ve come to believe that children live for the satisfaction of surprising their parents, and Anna’s announcement was no exception.
In fact, everything associated with having children has been surprising. There’s a common lament that the first year of marriage is the hardest, but for Jane and myself, this was not true. Nor was the seventh year, the year of the supposed itch, the most difficult.
No, for us—aside from the past few years, perhaps—the most challenging years were those that followed the births of our children. There seems to be a misconception, especially among those couples who’ve yet to have kids, that the first year of a child’s life resembles a Hallmark commercial, complete with cooing babies and smiling, calm parents.
In contrast, my wife still refers to that period as “the hateful years.” She says this tongue-in-cheek, of course, but I strongly doubt she wants to relive them any more than I do.
By “hateful,” what Jane meant was this: There were moments when she hated practically everything. She hated how she looked and how she felt. She hated women whose breasts didn’t ache and women who still fit into their clothes. She hated how oily her skin became and hated the pimples that appeared for the first time since adolescence. But it was the lack of sleep that raised her ire most of all, and consequently, nothing irritated her more than hearing stories of other mothers whose infants slept through the night within weeks of leaving the hospital. In fact, she hated everyone who had the opportunity to sleep more than three hours at a stretch, and there were times, it seemed, that she even hated me for my role in all this. After all, I couldn’t breast-feed, and because of my long hours at the law firm, I had no choice but to sleep in the guest room occasionally so I could function at the office the next day. Though I’m certain that she understood this intellectually, it often didn’t seem that way.
“Good morning,” I might say when I saw her staggering into the kitchen. “How did the baby sleep?”