A Forty Year Kiss

7

He found it difficult to admit, but it was true: he was both alone and lonely. Two similar sounding words, though their definitions were unique and separate. A person could be alone, but not lonely. Or lonely, but not alone. He was both. And worst of all was the truth that he was not comfortable in his loneliness.

Charlie had friends who were natural-born loners, friends who were married but perhaps shouldn’t be, and friends who were so quiet and gentle that even if they were married or involved, they may as well be alone, because they spoke very little, demanded less, and had no opinions.

But now that he had no work and no coworkers, his life felt like an isolation chamber, and he didn’t like it. There was almost no one to confide in, to talk to, to break the monotony. He couldn’t ask any more of Vivian than he had already; he knew he was pushing the boundaries of appearing needy, even desperate. He was afraid to admit it, but he probably was d esperate. So he texted the one person who always gave it to him straight. His second ex-wife, Mona, who, perhaps paradoxically, had over time become one of his best friends.

Now a good time for a talk? he typed, before setting the phone down on the kitchen counter and exhaling.

Within ten minutes she called him; they both preferred talking to texting.

You did what? she exclaimed, after he brought her up to speed.

I told you, I asked her out on a date, and it was fabulous. We kissed. I told her I’d moved back here to see if we could start over again. And I think it’s going well.

Oh, Charlie, she said, her voice falling with equal degrees knowing and disappointment. Why didn’t you call me before you went and did all that?

Why? So that you would have told me I was crazy? I was moving too fast? Well, I guess I don’t care that I’m moving too fast. I want to move too fast.

Yes, Mona said firmly. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. You are crazy. You are moving too fast. Way too fast.

Okay, tell me why moving fast is so wrong. Tell me why I made a mistake.

Charlie, Mona said, taking a deep breath, I’ll make it simple for you. You’re a baseball guy, right?

Yeah.

If you were a pitcher, you’d be oh-and-three. Zero wins against three losses. You’re just not a good husband. I’m not saying you’re a bad man. But I am saying what you already know, deep down. You’re selfish. You’re a good husband in those moments when it suits you. When it’s convenient. When you’re lonely and you need someone. Then, you’re incredibly giving, and considerate, and romantic. But, Charlie?

I’m still here, he said, a bit crestfallen that Mona was not immediately enthusiastic about the new developments in his life.

Marriage really isn’t about romance. Especially at our age. Marriage is about the day-to-day. Marriage is about steadiness. Marriage is a partnership. Marriage is hundreds, thousands of days without passion. Just groceries and bills and sickness and heartache and oil changes and snow that needs to be shoveled and bunions and missing reading glasses and appointments with the cardiologist, or maybe the endocrinologist, or the podiatrist. Am I getting through to you?

He and Mona had been married for less than half a year. A decision that happened with the finality and planning of a tornado. They both knew they’d made a mistake the morning after. There was no acrimony, only the bittersweet realization that their lives were incongruent, and that was okay. The whole thing would have been humorous if marriage wasn’t an institution taken seriously by the family, friends, and work acquaintances who traveled to Puerto Rico for their ceremony only to learn five months later that the whole production was a fiasco.

And many people had seen it coming, in the way a person glancing down from the twentieth story of a skyscraper might anticipate a car crash happening. Both of their grim-faced parents knew and had vocalized as much. In fact, both mothers were crying during the vows. Most of their siblings were drunk for the ceremony. As were the bride and groom and their witnesses for that matter. Pina coladas.

Mona was twelve years older than Charlie, and they had met when he briefly decided to head back to school, to college, an experiment that lasted only a few months longer than their marriage. She was his literature professor, and what they’d had, while they had it, was intense. But unsustainable. He was the student in her class who was years older than his classmates, his hands thick and rough with blue-collar labor. He made intense eye contact with her during class, so intense that he didn’t seem to care about the twenty-odd other students seated around him. And he made a point of not breaking eye contact.

She knew the moment he stepped into her classroom in broken-down blue jeans, work boots, and a short-sleeved collared shirt that exposed his suntanned arms and chest that she should have asked him to find another class, another professor, another campus. He was a man amongst boys, and completely unlike any of her colleagues in the English department. His literary tastes seemed curated by the shelves of a Boy Scout summer camp, or perhaps an uncle’s hunting shack—Jack London, Robert Service, Louis L’Amour. But at least he read. Or had read. And there were times he surprised her, by reciting a few lines of Robert Frost, or even Anne Sexton and Elizabeth Bishop; the latter two, he would later admit, was an assignment he gave himself, a way of impressing her.

But it didn’t take long for Mona to tire of his drinking and his general immaturity. She wanted to publish papers, teach, and maybe move on to a more prestigious university, which she later did, retiring as the department chair at Luther College, in Decorah, Iowa, where she and her husband, a physics professor, Nathaniel, lived in a grand old Victorian, so full of books that they had had to install steel beams beneath the sagging first floor to keep the whole house from collapsing under the weight of so many novels, poems, and criticism.

I’ve changed, he said, feeling a boyishness in his voice he was somewhat embarrassed by, especially since he knew she would immediately detect it. I know I’ve changed. I can do better. I want to do better.

I’ll be honest with you, Charlie, Mona sighed. I don’t think what you’re doing is fair to her. From what you’ve told me, this poor woman has endured a great deal of disappointment, and much of it stems from you. To leap back into her life in this way, with this kind of passion… Her voice trailed off. I hope you know what you’re doing.

I just feel like… I don’t have that much time left, Mona, he said, immediately wanting those words back, aware of course that she was twelve years his senior, and that the love of her life, Nathaniel, had been diagnosed with prostate cancer only nine months before. I want to make the most of what I have left.

Charlie, she said, it’s always been about you. What about this poor woman? What about her feelings? What about her life? What about the time she has left? Do you think it’s fair to saunter into someone’s life promising them the moon? How does she recover from that heartbreak, Charlie, if you don’t? If you don’t hand her the moon?

He cleared his throat, the import of Mona’s wisdom striking him like a stone to the forehead. He struggled for something to say. And how is Nathaniel? he asked.

Oh, he’s fine. I can see him now, old fool. He’s out collecting acorns from the neighbor’s yard. Thinks he’s going to mill them up and make flour, I guess. I can’t keep up with all his harebrained projects.

And his health? Sounds like he’s doing okay?

No, Charlie, he has cancer. He’s not exactly okay. But he’s living. He’s positive. He stays busy. He walks four miles every day, no matter the weather.

Huh, Charlie said, good for him.

Have you thought about that, Charlie? What are you doing with yourself these days? Since you retired? Do you have a hobby?

Oh, Mona, you know what my hobby has always been, he sighed, glancing at the empty bottle of Ridge Estate cabernet sauvignon that he had finished last night. He stood and dropped the bottle into the recycling bin and out of sight.

Charlie, she said, her voice now even and cool, like a beautiful prismatic icicle, dripping words that he waited to count, waited to catch in the palm of his hand. Charlie, she said again, I believe in you. You are, at your core, a wonderful man full of passion and verve. Sometimes—her voice trailed off, and he could hear her, adjusting the phone receiver, possibly glancing out the window again at Nathaniel—I even miss that sort of passion in my life. But, Charlie, she can’t fix you. She can’t make you happy. You have to make yourself happy. You have to change. And sweetie, you have to stop drinking. You can’t say that you care about the time you have left and then go and squander it inside a bottle. Find help. I’ll even help you if you’d like. But please, don’t break this woman’s heart twice. It isn’t fair.

It isn’t nice, he said, finishing that old Sinatra line.

Take care of yourself, Charlie.

Hey? Mona?

Yes, dear.

Thank you. Thanks for your call. I needed it.

Anytime, Charlie. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to fetch my husband and his four grocery bags of acorns. Poor guy looks like he has dementia, not cancer. Bye, Charlie.

And then, there he sat. In the cold kitchen. Outside, more leaves were falling from the maple trees, and an evening storm front was darkening the western horizon, obscuring the last of the sunset.