A Forty Year Kiss

2

She turned the ignition off and just sat there in the old sedan, watching the rain race down the windshield. Her heart was beating rapidly. So rapidly, she closed her eyes and unzipped her jacket to slide a hand over her chest. Concentrated on her breathing. Deep breaths. This doesn’t have to mean anything, she thought. This can just be a nice reunion. A drink with a man you once knew in a different life.

You don’t have to put too much into this. She had to think of it like that. Like a very small high-school reunion. Dwelling too much on their marriage—all the ways he had frustrated her and eventually broke her heart—that wouldn’t do. The secret she still harbored from him, her beloved secret, through all that time…no expectations, she told herself. One drink, maybe two. That’s all this is. She opened her eyes, glanced at her reflection in the rearview, and then left the car, rain already beading in her hair. Meeting him like this, she realized, was allowing him as close to the secret as he’d ever been. As close as one misstep in conversation, one detail, one pronoun, one aside that betrayed decades of omission. One drink, she said again, aloud.

Her head was down, focused on the sidewalk, or she would have seen him right there in the window. Sitting there, staring at her. She was walking towards the front door, thinking about the last time she had been to this bar—ages ago. Memories went skittering through her mind—second thoughts, regrets, doubts—all tumbling against one another in a maelstrom of confusion. She reached for the door and pulled, only to squint at all that greeted her. She saw someone waving in her direction, though it was difficult to focus through the darkness and the rain and the gauze of cigarette smoke drifting towards her from that outdoor ashtray. And then, just as she was about to pass the threshold, a man seemed to be trying to leave the bar. He was blocking her way now, like a lummox, and without looking at him, she tried to move around his strong, wide body, but he was standing still, like a statue, in front of her, and she said, Excuse me. And then she looked at him.

He was just standing there, like a boy. Like a boy grinning on his birthday, or Christmas morning. And now she focused on the images of only a few moments ago. The man waving. She realized that it must have been him. She must have seen him, waving, and then standing up from his stool and then sitting back down. Then awkwardly rushing to the door. And now here they were. Standing within inches of one another. As close as they had been in forty years. All of this she processed very quickly, and yet, she still could not believe it. That it was happening. That he was here, standing in front of her, smiling expectantly. He looked extremely happy to see her, his cheeks red with what looked like joy.

He was handsome, she thought, but then, he always had been handsome. Still, she was pleased to see he had not let himself go. Of course, they had exchanged photos through Facebook, but she knew that didn’t guarantee anything. Yet, here he stood, dressed very smartly in expensive-looking clothing. Even his haircut looked fresh. And they were standing so close that even in the dim light, she could see that he trimmed his nose and ear hairs. That was something she hated with older men. Older women, for that matter.

Oh wow, she said, it’s you. She was laughing. I didn’t expect you to be, you know, right there like that.

I’m sorry, he said, I was, just trying to, uh—he gestured behind her—you know, get the door.

Yes, well, she chuckled, you definitely got it.

Well, anyway, I was sitting over there, he said, indicating the mug of what looked like Coca-Cola or root beer at the corner of the bar. I saved you a seat, he said, gesturing with his arms as if he were a ma?tre d’ at some fancy restaurant. But of course, what did she know about fancy restaurants? She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten out at so much as a Red Lobster or Applebee’s.

She walked towards the bar, and just before sitting down, he was beside her. Can I give you a hug? he asked gently. Would that be okay?

She sighed and smiled, Yes, I’d like that.

And then his arms were gently around her, squeezing her lightly, and her arms were around him, too. She was aware then of the smell of his cigarette; it didn’t smell bad. And of his soap and his cologne, spicy, woodsy, clean. His chest had broadened since he was such a much younger man. He was like hugging someone else entirely now. A bear, she thought. Or a tree. Like wrapping her arms around a tree. She closed her eyes again and imagined that: hugging a very specific willow tree on a bright early summer afternoon when the sun had warmed the deep, gnarly bark. It felt good, she admitted. He was strong and smelled good, and he was excited to see her, though she suspected he had already been drinking. Well, she thought, we’ll see how this goes. It had been a while since anyone seemed so excited just to see her.

She gently pulled away from his embrace, and he sat down, a bit dolefully, it seemed; he did not know what to do with his eyes, where to put them. Or his hands. He was a sixty-four-year-old man now, but he was frightened of her; she could see it, plain as day. No, he was nervous, she thought. Very nervous. Like he did not want to break her, though, of course, he already had, so many years ago.

Thank you for seeing me, he said, finally meeting her eyes. I didn’t know if you would come.

She didn’t know what to say. You’re welcome? No. She didn’t want to give him too much, too soon. Didn’t want to raise his hopes too high, though she could see a kind of optimism had risen in him, right past his heart, perhaps to his shoulders. His posture was of a man with considerable promise. Like a man interviewing for a job he very much wanted.

It’s nice to see you, she said truthfully enough.

You look beautiful, he began suddenly. I’m sorry, no, I mean, I’m not sorry. It’s just—there you are, and…you’re beautiful. So. Thanks for seeing me. For coming out. He gestured towards the rain and the darkness. God, it’s awful out there.

The bartender came just then, which did something to break up the awkwardness. She glanced down the rail at all the liquor bottles, but the truth was she didn’t drink very much. She spotted a box of red wine in the corner, like an afterthought, and ordered a glass. The bartender slid a paper napkin onto the bar and set the high-necked glass of Malbec on the napkin and said, Six dollars, and then, looking at Charlie, at her ex-husband, asked, On your tab? and then turned away from them and made a note on a paper pad near the cash register.

Cheers, he suggested, holding his glass up.

Cheers, she said, touching his glass with her own.

They both took sips and then set their glasses down. Both cleared their throats at about the same time and then looked up into each other’s eyes to stifle uneasy laughs.

So, you’re back in town, she tried again.

Yeah, he said. Well, you know some of the story. I was living in Albuquerque. Working for the railroad, and I, uh, I don’t know. I guess I wanted to move back. I wanted to… He paused. Well, I suppose that I wanted to, or that I hoped to, reconnect with you, for one thing. So—here I am.

Wait a minute. You moved back here just for me? she asked, leaning away from him ever so slightly.

Well, he stumbled, yes and no. I mean, my uncle passed away and left me his farm. Outside Spooner. So…I’m fixing that place up. Spooner’s a good town. Great little bookstore there. And across the street there’s a wonderful brewpub. We should go sometime. Out to dinner, I mean. Up there.

She could see that his hands were trembling, that he was biting his lip. She felt compassion for him, and curiosity.

I don’t mean to—I don’t want to scare you off, he said. But I guess it’s true. Mostly I came back to see…well, to see if there might still be something between us.

Now he was glancing down at the bar, and she wondered how this evening would go. He was moving fast, it seemed, already thinking about another meeting, another date. Was this a date? She supposed it was. And was this new Charlie a conversationalist? Was he interesting? If he was interesting, would he be interested in her? And what would she even say? She tried to think back, to remember who he was exactly, all those years ago?

If she was being honest with herself, it wasn’t that they’d married because they shared so much in common, or because they had dated for months and months, talking and talking before finally their relationship evolved into something more. No. They were kids driven by attraction. They were in love. In lust, more to the point. Oh dear. The thought of it made her blush. She could feel the warmth, the blood in her body rush to her chest, to her neck, to her face and ears. She imagined someone shaking a champagne bottle just before the cork exploded.

You live in town? he asked.

She nodded, relieved by his question, though not quite sure what to share. That she lived with her daughter? Her poor daughter, raising two young kids with no help from either of the fathers, and no savings or worldly possessions. Just an old minivan, all rusted out above the wheel wells with a muffler that dragged below, scraping sparks along the road. An old minivan full of stale Cheerios and half-empty juice boxes. What else? That they rented a tiny little house? That she herself didn’t have much to call her own. A 401k with about thirty grand. A Saturn Ion with over two hundred thousand miles and four bald tires. About two thousand in the bank, and another two in cash, which she kept hidden and just for herself, stowed in the ceiling above her closet. A business that never quite got off the ground. A life that wouldn’t fit the contours of anyone’s typical family photo above the mantle. She thought now of the many photos she just didn’t have. She turned away from Charlie, and collected herself, steadied herself. How she dispersed information tonight mattered. Not just what she told him, but how much, and when. She didn’t have to lie, exactly, but did have to withhold, and protect. She sighed and began.

I’ve been living with my daughter, Melissa, she said at last. She’s got two young ones, so I do a lot of cooking and babysitting. This younger generation, she said, trailing off…

You’re a grandmother, he exclaimed, like she’d won the lottery. That’s wonderful. Amazing. Then, more calmly, I bet you’re a wonderful grandma.

He was sipping from a glass that definitely looked full of root beer. She eased up a bit. Felt the gravity of her stool. Allowed herself to relax. She hadn’t been out in many months. Maybe years. Certainly not on a date, not with a man, not like this.

Was this a date? She found herself returning to this question. It mattered to her, defining this moment, and perhaps his expectations. Did the hug suggest that is what it was? That they were on a date? Maybe this was all commonplace for him, maybe he was still going on dates with other women—how could she know? And did it matter? Could she ask? Suddenly, she found herself wondering if everything went well—if this new Charlie could somehow sweep her off her feet—where exactly would they go? Not to her house—or rather, her room in her daughter’s house. There were kid toys strewn everywhere, and she hadn’t tidied up—no, no, no. That wasn’t what she wanted. Not yet. Way too soon. And there were details in that house she wasn’t ready for him to see, particulars of her life. He didn’t need to see them now, anyway. This was just their first meeting. And she couldn’t quite imagine where he lived, this man, or how he lived. Only those quick, sudden memories of their marriage, and how much beer he drank, how many cigarettes he smoked, how he liked to cook bacon in their kitchen, splattering grease everywhere, not just on the stove, of course, but also the walls and the counters and the floor. Grease everywhere, and he never, not once, cleaned it up. In the end, on the day when she walked out, that was the tipping point: an empty scroll of white butcher’s paper with the word bacon scrawled on the paper and a kitchen stinking of smoke, grease, and cigarettes. She couldn’t take it anymore.

But it was curiosity that had brought her here tonight. Curiosity and, truth be told, boredom. Charlie reaching out through the ether of time had disturbed the humdrum of her days with an unpredicted excitement. When they messaged at night, she felt an old electricity, a connection. There was nothing forbidden in what they were doing—as far as she knew—but there was something unexpected. Something sweet about his messages and phone calls. When she thought about it, the messaging had been like dates, had been like flirting. Which made this evening feel all the more woozy, all the more surreal.

No, no, no. It wouldn’t come to that. This evening would end nicely. It would end like—a polite date. No hanky-panky. There was no need for that. Not even, she thought, any real desire. No, we’ll just move slow. If we move at all. Slow and steady.

I keep busy fixing up the farm. It probably doesn’t make much sense, a guy my age taking over a farm. But I don’t think I’m built to move into a condo or town house and wave the white flag like I can’t chew the fat anymore. Anyway, it wasn’t even in such bad shape. Mostly it just needed someone to throw out the old, you know? Fresh paint. New windows. The old furnace gave up the ghost, so I’m replacing that. New air conditioner. You should come out sometime. Maybe I could, um, make you dinner.

She laughed. Covered her mouth. Laughed again.

What? he laughed.

You, she said, cooking. You never cooked a thing. The whole time we were married. She remembered the bacon. No, that’s not true, she admitted. You could cook bacon. You just couldn’t clean up after yourself. Oof, what were those sandwiches you used to make? Bacon and pickles and mayonnaise on white bread?

Well, he said, that was true then. Now I can cook a little bit. Clean up, too. I’m actually tidy. I guess that happens when you live by yourself for long enough. A place for everything and everything in its place.

Like what? she asked, distracted by the thought that she’d never once lived alone, now that she thought about it. She’d never known the peacefulness of an immaculate kitchen, or the silent austerity of a home without children.

What do you mean?

You said you could cook a little bit. Like what, exactly?

Oh, plenty of things, he said, pinched into a corner. Now he smiled, or maybe winced. Glanced at her like a student who does not have ready the proper answer to his teacher’s question.

Okay, she said, I’ll make it easier for you. Name three. Three meals you can cook.

Spaghetti, he said.

She shook her head. That doesn’t count. Boil noodles. Heat sauce. Anyone can cook spaghetti.

Okay, he said. I like to grill. Steaks. Chicken. Fish, sometimes.

Any idiot can grill, she said, instantly sorry for saying so.

Maybe, he admitted, smiling.

I’m sorry, she said. You can grill. That’s good.

Fine, I like making fajitas, he said proudly. I have this old cast-iron pan that I like to sauté onions and peppers in. I warm my tortillas up in a colander, between two layers of kitchen towels over boiling water. Sometimes—all right, I know it’s not cooking—but I’ll open a can of beans or rice, too. Right? And I’ll grate a nice sharp cheddar cheese. Cold lettuce. Avocado. Thick sour cream. I got spoiled down in New Mexico. All the good restaurants. Still trying to shed all the weight I gained down there. What else? Oh—I’m making my own hot sauce, too. I could bring you a bottle sometime.

That sounds good, she admitted. She liked hot sauce on her eggs in the morning.

Oh, well, he said, holding that glass of root beer. I guess I’m not much in the kitchen. Truth is, I’ve been on my own for a long time. Cooking seems like a waste when most recipes are for a family. If I make a proper meal, I’m eating it for a week at a time. Until I get sick of whatever it was that I was so excited about cooking in the first place.

Sometimes, she said, it feels like all I do is cook. Or assemble snacks. Prepare meals and wash dishes. Do you have any idea how many dirty dishes two little children can create? It’s like they think they’re at a hotel, you know? Just put it in the sink, and then—she waved her hands like a magician—presto. The dishes clean themselves. Same with the laundry. Oh, mostly I don’t mind. But sometimes I feel like… I guess I don’t mind. She laughed, took a sip of her wine. Did not wince.

That’s all another world to me, he said, somewhat sadly, she thought. Never did have any children.

She felt pity for him then, because she knew something tragic, something beautiful, something secret that he did not, something she had never shared with him. Something she thought of every single day and wore like an elegant necklace of lead. A decision she’d made without him, so many years ago. All the decisions she had made to create her life, when she might have made other decisions that opened doors she could not imagine, to places and opportunities she could not fathom.

It was probably for the best, he said. Took a long time for the wild to leave me. I wouldn’t have been much of a father, I guess, much of a dad.

She nodded her head, in perfect understanding.

Now he turned to her, their knees practically touching, a faint electricity there, or magnetism, between them, and he said, Vivian, listen to me—I’m sorry if I wasted those years of your life. I’ve been thinking a lot about who I was back then and the mistakes I made. But I loved you very much, and I’m sorry that I was a bad husband.

She stared at him, at this new Charlie, her mouth slightly open, but hidden behind her hand. She had no idea what to say. But he wasn’t done.

I hear a lot of people these days say they have no regrets, but I’ve never understood that. They’ve never made a terrible mistake? I don’t understand. Of course they have. I mean, I know I made bad mistakes. A lot of them. But the biggest mistake was losing you.

She could not seem to find her voice. It had been a very long time since anyone had apologized to her. And this was not because her life had been easy, or because everyone she’d encountered had been wonderful to her, because she’d never been wronged. No, quite the opposite. She swallowed and swallowed again. Wanted to suddenly tell him everything about her life, all of the disappointments and hardships. That he wasn’t alone in his mistakes and sadness. But instead, she took a deep breath and then a small sip of her wine.

You don’t have to apologize, she said at last. That was a long time ago.

They were quiet just then, very quiet, as the last of the happy hour crowd drifted out of the bar in a slow skein of jackets, hats, and gloves. Over-the-shoulder good nights and keys jinglejangling. The bar was quieter now. The bartender washing glasses. A man at the billiards table, rubbing blue chalk on the tip of his cue. Someone talking about the weather. About the weather making his joints feel sore.

I don’t know how to say this, Charlie began, but I never ever stopped thinking about you. And lately—you’re all I can think about. I want to spend time with you, Vivian. I want you back in my life. I want to learn all about you. What I missed. And I’m willing to just be your friend if that’s what you want. I’ll be the best friend you ever had. I’m retired now, so I have time. I can help you with your grandbabies, or your house—

Whoa, she laughed, slow down. Slow, slow, slow down. Easy, tiger.

She took a drink of her wine, pushed some hair behind her ear, and tried to collect herself, her thoughts. Tried to understand her own expectations for this meeting, this reunion, this man. The night was moving in a way she had not anticipated, and yet, she couldn’t help feeling delighted by the developments. Everything was coming as a surprise, shining like a tremulous rainbow. A lost coin on the sidewalk.

Do you still love horses? he asked.

Always, she smiled. I’ve always loved horses. I should’ve married a rich man who could have bought me a dozen horses and a nice dry red barn. Funny to think about, you know? But maybe that’s all I’ve ever wanted. She burst out laughing. Is that too much? Am I asking for too much? Some horses?

No, he said, shaking his head. Only he was serious. I don’t think so at all.

Come to think of it, I don’t need the rich man, she said, keeping it light. Just the horses. Horses never disappoint you. She closed her eyes and felt her forehead resting on the muzzle of a horse, her fingers scratching its thick, coarse hair.

I sure wish I owned some horses, he said. I guess we could go buy a horse right now. Does it have to be a specific horse? Or will any old nag do?

She ignored him. Sometimes I’ll buy a lottery ticket, she went on. I like to dream about what I’d do with the money. I’d buy my daughter a house and a new car. Set aside some money for the girls’ college, she said thoughtfully. Then I think I’d buy a nice piece of land with an old barn. And then I’d buy a few horses from folks who can’t afford them. Can’t take care of them. It happens all the time. People’s hearts are bigger than their checkbooks, and those horses get left out in the lurch. I’d rescue old horses. That would make me very happy.

That doesn’t sound like asking for too much at all.

Yeah? she said. What would you do? If you won the lottery?

He looked down at the bar, at his hands, and struggled to tamp down a smile. After tonight, I mean…what more could I ask for?

Oh, come on. Don’t be silly.

No, I’m serious. You live long enough, you understand the value of a second chance. A new beginning. If you’d told me two, three years ago I could sit down at a bar and talk to you, be this close to you…how much money would I have paid for that chance, that time? I would have paid anything.

Really? she asked.

He nodded his head.

You’re serious? she said.

Yeah, he said, easily, I am.

She watched his face. While he spoke, his eyes seemed fixed on just about anything but hers, nervous. She had never thought of him as an emotive man, not at all. Of course, they had been so young when they were married, so immature, both of them. But she could sense a kind of desperation in Charlie. All his cards were laid out before him. It was as if he felt there would never be another night like this one, another chance to somehow impress her, or at least make her curious. She felt nervous for him. Almost to the point of nausea.

Excuse me, he said suddenly, and made for the bathroom. And she was left there alone, sitting at the rail of a mostly empty bar, her glass mostly empty as well.