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= Romantic Novel =

A New England Love Story

by Jean-Thomas Cullen

4.

That guy was here again," Lillie said as she and Marian did their bus-boy routine, pushing a cart around the library near closing time, sliding piles of books off the tables where school kids had sat while waiting for their rides home.

"Huh?" Marian said as she leaned over a table to pull a bunch of books into the cart. Lillie, as usual, wore her blue denim overall dress, dark blue hose, and Birkenstock type shoes. With her pale skin, handsomely cute face, and blonde ponytail, she seemed never to age.

"You know—Apollo, the sun god."

Marian felt a ball of fire in her gut. How silly. She didn’t even know the guy’s name. And she was not anywhere ready to respond to those feelings. The idea revolted her deep down.

Lillie said: "He gives me butterflies. There I was, checking him out—"

Marian laughed. "You were checking him out, Lillie?"

Lillie made her Oh Please face. "I mean I was checking his friggin’ book out, Miss Wise Pie. I’m a married woman with four kids."

"I wouldn’t blame you if you checked him out. He is quite handsome."

Lillie was still guffawing. "I swear. Missy, you are the one who should be checking him out." Seeing Marian’s face, she instantly switched to a dramatically droopy face. She seemed ready to hug Marian. "I know, honey. But you cannot live like a nun forever."

"I am not living like a nun." Marian wasn’t arguing, but she felt just a bit defensive. She liked Lillie, who was a steady kind of soul. It was nice to have friends in a time like this. "I am just—" she couldn’t find the words. She was not going to cry. She felt cool, calm, and possessed.

"You want a bit of advice?" Lillie said making her Severe Friend face.

Marian laughed. "Sure, long as it’s free."

They carted more books together. They kept glancing at the wall clock.

"You are still young. Keep your options open. You don’t have to marry the first guy you see. It’s a long, difficult path requiring patience. But what if a nice looking guy with money asks you out to a movie or dinner. Are you going to lock yourself up at home forever?"

Marian’s faint lisp--barely detectible by all except her self-conscious self--came back. "I know," she said softly. "I’ve been thinking the same thing myself. I just don’t want to rush things."

"You should not rush things," Lillie said patronizingly, as if speaking to a little sister. "You’re doing just fine."

Mrs. Linda Damien, the Chief Librarian, had finished locking all the doors, and was walking the grounds with Mr. Adolfo Perez, the school security guard. He worked for a private contractor, not the city, but he’d been here so long he might as well be a city employee. He came to the library every day to make sure they got the library and the school buttoned up for the night. His patrol partner, Mr. Wilson, actually did the school with Mr. Wisniewski, the janitor there; the only one you saw here was Mr. Perez. Little Emery had systems that worked, pretty much, and everyone knew the rules. It was a nice place to live. Then again, Lillie was right; it was a nunnery for her. How much longer could she be in free-fall like this?

She had almost done a terrible thing, a year ago, when news came, and she started absorbing the fact that Tommy would never be coming to see her again. They had been married not quite two years. On almost their anniversary, the Government flew her to Washington, D. C. along with her parents and Tommy’s parents and family members. The burial had been at Arlington National Cemetery. Marian had sat like a grieving, shattered statue on a little folding chair, all in a row with other mourners on folding chairs, she wearing a black dress with a veil over her face. She had held a bouquet of flowers that someone had placed on her lap. Her black-gloved fingers were so numb that she could not hold the flowers. Tommy’s mother had sat on her left, and Mama had sat on her right. It had been a rainy day, as if tears were falling from the sky, and the flags had been draped in leather sheaths, including his regimental colors and the honor guard at Arlington. There had been a long ride in a cold black limousine, until they reached the grave site. Rain had rattled steadily on the cloth pavilion top above them, and the air smelled of wet grass and fresh soil. The grave lay open, and Tommy lay in his coffin nearby. Marian had broken down again, and needed help getting to her chair. Strong, kind young men in uniform had held her elbows and her waist as they guided her to the folding chair.

It all happened like honey flowing downhill in a sunny dream. She had been unable to hold down any food, and her head was light as an open tower with clouds blowing through it.

A volley of shots rang out over the hills.

She heard a man’s voice shout curt orders, followed somewhere near enough to hear, too far to see, by the snap of shoes and rifle sling buckles.

A bugler played the most slow, soulful rendition of Taps she could ever imagine. She held it together, looking dignified and brave, or so people told her in the hours and days that followed. She had been to other funerals like this, and hers was the only one where there were not at least one or two little children climbing around and fidgeting and wondering why their daddy was not here. They had not had time to get a family started. It was a terrible thing to think, but she thought it would be somehow easier, keep her occupied, if they had one or two children. She would grieve for the loss in their lives, but they would carry on together—oh whatever, she had no idea, during the months that followed, what she thought or felt. It was all such a big gaping hole of time and emotions. She remembered the grief on Tommy’s parents’ and siblings’ faces, and the shock on their little kids’ features. She clung to her own mother after comforting Tommy’s mother and father as best she could. She remembered sitting on a park bench somewhere in D.C., later that weekend, with her father, as they held each other and cried. He held her because he know how much his little girl was broken up, and she held him because she knew he’d been so proud to give her away, and he was actually somehow irrationally blaming himself that now she was going through this. She flew back Northeast and stayed in Emery, Tommy’s home town, but she honestly did not know how much longer she could endure it. The little town was wonderful, perfect like Tommy had been—despite all of his little human flaws, and who anywhere was perfect—but in a strange way Lillie was right without knowing exactly how. It was time to let go. It was now months, and it would soon be years, after the funeral, after the rain, after the military band and the throwing of wet soil on the coffin. She was glad she had not gone that way. Just a few months ago, she had nearly driven into the lake and ended it all, but she was past that now. It had been a long-delayed low point.

"My advice is free," Lillie said as she pushed the cart through the hall. "Guys who look like that are pure trouble."

"Do you even know his name?" Marian teased lightly. She was at ease with herself now, and ready to put her life back together.

"I checked him out, remember?" Lillie saw Marian’s teasing eyes and made her Now Really Must You face. "Him, and his book, my dear. His name is Richard Moyer, and I would not trust him farther than I could throw him. Which is about one foot if he took his shoes off and jumped when I said throw."

They sorted books into carrels together by destination sections—History, Fiction, Reference, and so on. It was a quiet, cozy time that Marian liked because the library was quiet and secure, and the people who created chaos (sometimes wonderful chaos, sometimes just hormonal, pubescent kids) were home giving their parents the run-around.

It was a time she loved because, as Terie Gill had observed during a philosophical moment once, here we are, surrounded by the wisdom of the ages. Here we are, with Socrates and Plato, Homer and Dante, Lincoln and Einstein, and yet we are no wiser. If we could absorb all those thoughts in these books, would we have more answers, or just more questions? Marian had thought at the time (coffee in the break room) that it made a person all the more determined to take good care of the library and see it on its journey across generations.

"Richard Moyer," Marian said as she worked. She didn’t let on she had already checked him out (so to speak). "Richard Moyer. That has sort of a ring to it, huh?"

Lillie had a twinkle in her eye. "Sounds like money, huh? Or movie star? I don’t know what Mr. Moyer does for a living, but those shoes alone are worth about what I earn in a week. I wish you would just find yourself a nice, quiet, steady man. You are a very attractive woman, you are still young, in good health, no kids or obligations, and you can start over."

"I feel sort of damaged, Lillie."

"I know, hon. I know, sweetheart. But you are a strong person. I watched you recover yourself the past two years. I remember what a good person you were before this happened. You were such a good wife, hon. You will be again some day."

"I’m going to start blowing again."

Lillie put one muscular arm around her. "Aw, sweetie. I didn’t mean--"

Marian bit her lip to stop it from quivering. She was unable to speak, and slapped herself lightly on the chest with one palm. "I’m—going—to—get—through—this…"

Lillie patted her on the back.

"Is something wrong in there?" Rose Otto said severely from the doorway.

"Why don’t you go eat cars in the parking lot," Lillie told Rose. "Get lost."

She hugged Marian, turning her back protectively toward Rose, who quickly withdrew from the doorway. Lillie patted Marian on the back. She said to Marian: "You are going to find yourself a nice man. Not some rotten New York playboy. I am not going to see you ruin your life with some horrible sociopath."

Marian pushed Lillie lightly, fondly, but firmly back. "I am going to get through this," she repeated in a firmer voice. She raised both hands, grasped her rich ball of black curls, and combed it sensuously with her fingers. "I am going to find my life back again."

"You go girl," Lillie said respectfully. "That light in your eyes is almost scary."

"You’re right, Lillie. That guy is probably the world’s biggest ding dong."

"All right," Lillie said with a big sigh. "Let’s finish up and get out of here. I got to go tell Rose I’m sorry I rattled her chain, but she gets her sniffy little nose into everyone’s business."

"It’s been another long day," Marian agreed. It would be good to crawl into bed tonight, pull the covers over her head, and hope the night would pass without any horrible dreams. She puttered about the usual routine of putting a few last things away, checking a door or a drawer, making sure everything was ready for tomorrow. Already, Mr. Perez, the police officer, was back with Linda Damien.

Two years ago, she had died—virtually, and almost for real. Now she felt the first hint of a totally new feeling—to leave town. To start over. She was going to take this terrible loneliness, wrap herself in its protective shield as if it were a battle flag, and go far away. Maybe to a big city, or a foreign place, she had no idea just now. She must make a completely new start with as little baggage as possible. It would mean leaving her in-laws, Tommy’s parents, whom she had come to love as much as her own. But they would have to understand, and she would always be within reach if they needed her. At least, it would have to be that way. She had no idea how she was going to do this, or how any of it would happen. But the time was drawing near for her to make a move. It just had to be the right thing, whatever that meant, and it was not going to mean depending on a man. She might feel she needed a man in her life, but Tommy was still so much there with her.

She thought about it, for the millionth time, after Mr. Perez had walked her and the other women to their cars in the parking lot, and she was alone on the road to the little house she now owned. She had paid off the mortgage with the insurance money from Tommy’s military benefits.

It was not a long drive down Emery Lane into the valley. She drove through the town’s darkened, sleepy little center, where all the businesses were closed. Shop windows glowed dimly with interior night lighting. A State Police car slowly prowled through on the main road, which was a state road. The troopers inside, wearing gray uniforms and gray Stetsons, looked at her carefully, then cautiously waved as they passed on their way. They made several patrol sweeps of the town each night, but focused their attention on the thruway. The town had its own constabulary, consisting of half a dozen men and women volunteers as it was in many small Connecticut towns, and towns all across the country. Fire, emergency, and constabulary tended to be unpaid citizens doing a civic duty for the common good. Also, the summer barbecues and autumn-spring potlucks were worth socializing over by the lake.

She could picture Mr. Moyer: tall, dark, handsome, smiling—funny thing—her stomach churned as she turned off the engine, grabbed her purse and keys, and ran up the driveway under the security flood lights. Funny thing. This man, what was his name, he had about the same hair color, height, and boyishly handsome looks as Tommy had. It was unbearable. She quickly let herself in. She locked the door loudly, rattling, with hands so shaky she dropped her key ring twice before getting the lock secured. She made it to the bathroom, just in time to throw up violently and repeatedly. It was eating her alive, this grief. She loved this little house, with its two bedrooms and its flower bed. It was to have been their dream house. Tommy had even repaired the wooden slat fence all around their eighth-acre, mostly lawn property, for the day when they had little children who must not come to harm. He would have made a good dad. All gone now.

All at once, a great calmness came over her. She felt quiet in her heart. Something told her she was really starting to be done, and ready to move on. She would not give up this house. She would make a new life here. Emery was a good place to live. She would simply have to come to grips with her ghosts. There was that old saying: no matter where I go, there I am. She could run away, and her ghosts would travel with her. Better to stand her ground right here. With that new resolve, she felt refreshed and renewed. She remembered her moment of stark depression and her drive to the lake. Whoever or whatever you are, Mr. Moyer, you saved my life. You will never know that, because you are an unattainable god. But I thank you anyway.

She brushed her teeth, looking at herself in the mirror. She was not crying. Her eyes had dark circles around them, and her hair was a mess, as usual requiring a long thoughtful combing. She was not sobbing this time.

What must Moyer have thought when he looked into her eyes that crazy moment back in July or August? She had just tried to kill herself, and she must have seemed like a wild woman from some primeval forest. Maybe he liked wild women. Was he really coming back once or twice a week to stare at her, say silly things like "Excuse me," and stumble over her as she sat on a stool sorting books? On purpose, of course? Or was she imagining things?

If she sold this place, then the fence Tommy had mended would become security for some other young family, maybe with a little girl and a little boy and a happily bounding dog. A ball would roll across the grass. A woman would come running from the kitchen to see to her children and her man. That man would pull up in his truck every afternoon, dirty and tired from work, and be with his family. Those were all the things that had not been meant to be. She understood now. It was almost as if Tommy were in the room with her, patting her back and telling her it was time to let go. Most of all, he was saying to her that it was okay. It is okay, he was saying. It is okay, she thought as she rinsed her mouth, inhaled the clean minty fragrance of toothpaste and sink water. "It is okay," she said out loud as she strode into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Sonoma Merlot from its bottle in a kitchen cabinet. The wine felt warm and commanding, like bottled sunshine the color of blood. Its bouquet rose into her brain like a quenching fog. She had not felt Tommy’s presence in the car that night at the lake. However, she had felt Richard Moyer’s presence. Maybe they’d both been there in the spirit, preventing her from going through with her dark and final impulse. That too was over now and would never again happen. "It is okay, Tommy. Thanks. I get it. It is okay to move on now."

For the first time in years, she took off her wedding band and laid it on the white, embroidered doily that stretched across the dresser in the bedroom. She laid it beside Tommy’s wedding band, which had been couriered to her from the battlefield in Afghanistan by helicopter. The ramrod colonel in Army dress blue, covered with decorations and awards, who had handed it to her at the gravesite in Arlington with a stiff bow, told her the Tommy’s ring had been salvaged from his body by a comrade; had been flown by chopper to a command post; taken by a French army nurse to the U.S. Embassy in Kabul; had been courier-pouched to the State Department in Washington, D.C.; had been driven by a four star general’s personal aide, a brigadier general, to the mortuary command at Arlington; and had been personally placed in this colonel’s hand by the command sergeant major of that institution. "Just so you know we all loved him, and this entire nation loves you, Ma’am," the colonel had said, stood straight up at attention, and saluted her while she held the ring in one small hand and showered tears all over it in the rain.

Now it was time to say goodbye at last. She could almost hear Mama telling her from far away in Shawnee: You have done your duty, Marian. You have been a good soldier’s wife. Your heart died on that battlefield, just as if that IED blew you apart and left you bleeding helplessly in the dust. Tommy was taken away, but life is giving you a second chance. Your duty now is to take that opportunity and who knows—maybe you can start a new family now and serve them.

She slept a deep, sound, dreamless sleep that night after just one glass of wine. She woke up the next morning early, feeling more rested than she had in years.

A light rain made the early morning streets shimmer as she rushed to her car for the drive up the hill, which was barely two miles. The days were getting shorter, and the nights longer. The weather grew rainier and stormier. By November, it was growing grayer and darker as well. As usual, one hoped for a white Christmas in Connecticut, like in that old Bing Crosby movie from nearly a century ago. Either way, there was usually a cold spell, followed by a short warm snap called the January thaw. This would last just a few days, with temperatures as high as the 50s. Then, as February began, winter would set in with a fury and last until early April. These were the long, gray, dreary months when Connecticut was not an ideal place, and many people nowadays went on vacation in Florida or out west. Most people did not have such luxuries, and simply toughed it out as local people had been doing for centuries.