The Anniversary

 I love exploring different types of relationships. They don't always have to follow the Hollywood script where a man or woman runs to meet up the person s/he loves who is about to leave forever and of course the person arrives in time and they live happily ever after.

Fidgeting in his chair, Shawn notices his untied shoelace. As he bends to tie it, he bumps his head on the table. Andrea is late, unusual for her. Checking his agenda, he confirms the time, day and place. He's alone. Even the bartender has wandered off.

The door opens as Andrea bursts in. In the 15 years he has known her, she always oozes excess energy. Yet she is one of the most feminine women he knows.

She kisses his cheek when he stands to greet her. It's a definite kiss, not one that smacks air. "I'm so sorry. Been waiting long?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not even sure this bar is open." Although this bar is named The Perfect Place, the rug is a bit tattered and the tables scratched. Yeasty odors of alcohol float in the air. Usually they meet at The Watering Hole, but it's closed for renovation. They call that bar  “our place”.

It's the fifth "our place" they've had. The first was The Year of the Tiger across from the building where they'd both worked for different companies.

They'd met when Shawn had popped his head into Andrea's office. "I've heard a rumour you've got a coffee pot," he'd said.

"With fresh ground beans. Want some?" He accepted, starting a pattern of three o'clock afternoon visits. Their conversations tasted better than the coffee. He found himself cutting articles from newspapers in case they ran out of topics. They never had.

Then he'd invited her to lunch at The Year of the Tiger to thank her for all the coffee. They discovered they liked the same dishes -- except for rice. He wanted steamed. She preferred fried.

They both loved fortune cookies. Andrea had taken out her glasses to read hers. Then she laughed. Her laugh was never far from the surface, escaping at what he felt were strange moments. When he fantasized about sleeping with her, which he had often over fifteen years, the fantasy would get out of control, and she would laugh at the wrong moment.

"What does it say?" he'd asked. His had said, "You'll lose a friend temporarily."

"Stop hanging around married men," she'd said.

"I don't believe you."

She'd handed him the strip of white paper. It read, "Look for the truth."

"You lied," he'd said.

"Are you married?" she'd asked

He'd paused before nodding.

"I thought so." Her head bobbed up and down. "Even with no wedding ring."

At first he'd chalked it up as another example of what he'd feared was clairvoyance. "What makes me seem married?"

"You never ask me out. You never make a pass, but act like you want to." She'd looked directly at him. "And the give-away of give-aways is you never  talk about your personal life."

"Does it make a difference?" he'd asked.

"In a friendship?--nah! If you wanted to be my lover, it would. I'm too feminist to do that to a sister."

"I get the message," he'd said. He refiled his fantasy from possible to improbable. Part of him had been relieved. Part felt he'd lost an opportunity.

Nothing changed until Andrea had been fired. She'd made a list of suggestions on improving business at the insurance agency. She and Shawn had discussed them, adding several, toning down others.

"Good job," Shawn had said reading the final version. They'd shaken hands in congratulations of what they hoped would be a bonus for her. As a divorcee raising a little girl she often ran out of money before running out of bills.

"You're fired," her boss, who hated "uppity women," had said.

Although she'd called Shawn, he was out. She'd left a message that she'd been fired and her home phone number. The temporary receptionist had lost it.

Shawn had been shocked to find another person in Andrea's place when he'd gone for his regular mid-afternoon coffee and conversation the next Monday. This new person, built like a Wagnerian opera star, hated coffee and Shawn almost equally.

He'd figured it was for the best.

Toying with the idea of an affair was fun, but he'd been raised in a strict religion with clear prohibitions against adultery. Like Jimmy Carter, lust would have to stay in his heart.

Occasionally he'd thought of her. During those moments, he would search his memory to try and remember where she'd said she lived. He hadn't asked, afraid to know. From time to time he'd look in a phone book under different towns, but her name wasn't listed. He felt annoyed and relieved but accepted the dichotomy.    

      

When he'd tired of his job, he'd found a better one in Boston. Rather than drive, he commuted by train, then walked from North Station to his harbor office. Sometimes in crowds, he searched for her, but not actively.

During his fifth month at the new job, he'd spied a woman wearing a coat like hers. It was a special coat that she'd bought for its burnt orange color with black fur trim and Dr. Zhivago style. He'd never seen another like it. The coat was a block ahead of him. He broke into a run.

"Andrea! Andrea!" he'd called dodging pedestrians. 

The woman in the coat turned. "Shawn. It's you."

"Your hair is a different color," he'd said.

"Yours isn't."

What a typical Andrea answer, he'd thought. They'd met that night for drink and then once or twice a month from then on. They'd never gone to bed, although they joked about it.

In The Perfect Place Shawn helps her slip out of her coat. The burnt orange has been replaced in order by a mustard one buttoning on the side, a blue suede with a curly wool lining and now a rose down coat with a hood from L.L.Bean.

She's slightly heavier than when they first met. Her hair is brown again. She calls him "a poor girl's Kenny Rodgers."

"I'll look for the bartender," he says. He's back in a few minutes. "They don't open until four."

Andrea looks at her watch. It's quarter of.

"The bartender said he'll be down a couple of minutes early."

"That's nice of him."

"I told him this was our anniversary. Did you forget?"

She fingers the netting on the green jar holding an unlit candle. "No. I even bought you a present."

"Really?" They've never exchanged gifts.

"Well, not a big one." She pulls a package wrapped in tissue from her briefcase. Inside is a large pile of dried black mushrooms. When they'd worked in Boston they'd visited Chinatown every couple of months. Shawn had shopped for the same type of mushroom that she'd just given him. He used then in dishes he learned to cook in an adult education course at his old high school.

"I went to Year of the Tiger last Saturday. Guess what?" Before he can, she continues. "Woo Chin still is there and asked about you."

Tenderness sweeps over him. He touches her shoulder before reaching into his pocket. Pulling out a ceramic heart with violets painted on the white surface. "You said you liked violets."

She holds it to the light. There are holes. When she sniffs, the tangy odor of dries flowers tickles her nose. "A potpourri. Lovely." She nuzzles his cheek.

"Careful, it might lead to something."

Her snort echoes in the empty room. "After all these years going to bed would be anti-climatic."

The waiter interrupts. He flicks his lighter at the candle which throws green color onto the ceramic heart.

"Sam Adams for me. She'll have a Kahlua Sombrero," Shawn says without asking. This time he doesn't tease her about coffee milkshakes with kick and she says nothing about patriotic beer.

She tilts her head in the way he has learned something important will follow. "Your son was in today."

She has met his kids both grown. The girl thinks she is a business acquaintance. The son knows she is more, but not too much more. His son asked Shawn once if he'd ever been unfaithful to his mother. Shawn had answered, "almost."

Shawn has met her daughter. One Saturday, curiosity overcame better judgement, and he'd driven to her house. Instead of staging a romantic love scene, he'd put up staging to help them paint Lisa's bedroom a soft blue. Andrea had matched the paint to the sky in the Bambi curtains she'd bought. Now Lisa prefers Cold Play posters.

"So what did my son want?"

"To renew his car insurance." Having grown tired of working for others, Andrea had opened her own agency. It provides well for her needs. "But it was strange. He left and came back. Then he thanked me for being your friend."

The waiter brings their drinks. He goes behind the bar to cut lemons and limes.

"To us," Shawn says The beer looks green in the flickering candle light. "To our anniversary." Foam sticks to his lip. He licks it off. "Look." He pinches the skin of his hand. "See how slowly it goes down."

"That's cause your 55. Mine's slow too." She demonstrates.

"Not as slow as mine," he says. Dislike of aging registers in his scowl.

"I'll catch up in another ten years."

He picks up her hand and kisses the palm. "You know, I worry that you've never remarried. I'm half sacred you will, but I feel guilty that I'm why you haven't."

She squeezes his hand, but he feels she's trying not to laugh. Her eyes crinkle: her mouth twitches. "Don't worry. I'm single because I haven't found anyone I wanted to marry. However, now you brought it up there's someone I'm seeing. We may live together."

He drops her hand and folds his arms across his chest, resisting the urge to say, "I forbid it." He knew there were other men in her life, but he pretended there weren't.

The bartender calls to them. "There'll be meatballs and other munchies in about ten minutes."

"Thank you," she says. 

Shawn say nothing. "You're awfully quiet."

"I'm not sure what to say." He avoids her eyes.

She takes his chin forcing him to look at her. "Let's talk about it."

He thinks of their double relationship: nice friendly pals in reality and a second imaginary one where they make mad passionate love.

Instead he says, "I guess I'm selfish. I like all the warm feelings I have for you knowing my wife is waiting dinner. I've never understood it. I love her, but I feel so warm toward you." Has he said too much? Not enough? Unlike other conversations he edits his word. "I tell you things I don't tell anyone. Even my wife."

This time she does laugh. "Of course you do. That's 'cause what you tell me makes no difference at all."

"He looks sceptical then hurt. She never discounted what he'd said before. To the contrary, she always acts as if his ideas were important. He'd hate to think that she'd been pretending.

"Think about it, Shawn. Remember when you wanted to build your addition? Your wife thought it cost too much."

He nods. "You and I discussed it because no matter what you did, it made not a whit of difference to me. I didn't have to juggle your budget. I didn't have to clean up the extra space or worry about workmen."

"What does that..."

"...have to do with it? Everything. Because I have no vested interest you can talk freely. You don't need to sell me on an idea."

He says, "Maybe."

She says, "I care about you so much. I make a great sounding board. I use you the same way. How many ideas for the agency have I bounced off you? Or when I wanted advice on Lisa? Or when I couldn't decide between a sports car and something sensible?"

He remembers chats over lunch or his office phone ringing and Andrea saying, "Listen, what do you think of..."

She put his hand on his knee. "That's what so neat about us. If I do remarry or even live with Fred, I won't give you up. If he doesn't understand, then he's not the man for me. I assume you'll still want to see me."

So Fred is his name, Shawn thinks, but says, "Stupid question. Maybe things will be more equal. You'll have someone to go home too, also."

Andrea signals for another round. Traditionally they have two drinks. "Don't go getting marriage-is-wonderful on me. I always though I was better off being single."

He shakes his head. "After all these years you still amaze me." He wants to ask something else.

She notices him fidgeting. "The answer is yes. If you hadn't been married, we would have had the mad, passionate sex you imagined."

"How do you know what I imagined?"

"You told me, Dummy." She ruffles his grey hair.

"For once your clairvoyance is wrong. I wanted to know if you ever imagined mad, passionate sex with me."

Even in the green light he sees her blush. "Does that mean yes?"

"Probably." She peeks at him from the corner of her eyes.

He has another question about men she has had sex with, but like certain topics about his family that subject is off limits. Their boundaries, formed by unspoken agreement, had fallen in place as silently as snow.

They finish their second round. She glances at her watch. "I've gotta pick Lisa up. Band rehearsal."

The waiter brings the check which Shawn pays. On the way out he stops at the munchie table and spears two meatballs on two toothpicks. He eats one and puts the other in her mouth. She reaches for a napkin to wipe sauce off his cheek where he grazed it with the meatball.

"When do I see you again?" He helps her on with her coat and thinks he liked the burnt orange better.

"Want to go to Rockport when we can block off a day?"

"I'll call you late next week." He opens the door. While they were inside, it had snowed. Big wet sticky flakes lightly coat the ground.

"Look. The forsythia have snow on them. How beautiful." She touches a bough. Turning, she puts her arms around his neck and kisses his nose. "Happy anniversary, Dearheart."

"And many more," he says.

They go in separate directions.

The Woman and the Wino

This story was based on a real-life experience told to me by an HR person working at a Digital Equipment plant in the bad part of Boston. I took the basic premise of a wino who maintained his dignity then developed Lorna totally from my imagination, who is nothing like the HR Person. Still, I let the HR person read the story before I had it published in Moments in Time in France in 1996.

  

The screech of metal wheels against metal tracks hurts Lorna's teeth as the Boston T spits her into the ghetto of her working world. She compares, Ashanti loves Malcom and Fuck you carved into the seat in front of her to the graffiti she saw last night at Grendal's Den in Harvard Square. It said,Vita Sackville-West loves Virginia Woolf.

The subway lurches above ground carrying her further from her Cambridge condo. Its deliberately exposed brick is warmed by Marimekko hangings. In the one lit tenement window she can see exposed brick where plaster has fallen away. She shudders.

What is Lorna Eastman, a product of middle-class suburbia and Boston College, doing on the Green Line at 6:00 a.m.? She asks herself that every morning after prying herself from bed to go to her current assignment. Item No. 5 on her job description reads, "Integrate urban poor into corporate culture".

Unuse to failure, she feels as if she has failed in packing away her stereotypes. She has decided when she hears, "How's it hanging, you motherfucker you," without cringing she will have won.

The first six months she drove. Twice her tires were slashed, once her radio was stolen. Finally, her car vanished forever. After weighing the advantages of car ownership, she banked her insurance money and settled for public transportation.

Northampton Station is raised above street level. A half building offers limited protection from the snowflakes pelting her face. Tightening her hold on her briefcase she checks for possible danger.

Walking through the station she sees a bum lying on his usual bench. Sunday's Boston Globe covers him. He fondles his German Shepherd resting under the bench.

"Morning," he mumbles.

She ignores him.

"Whasa matta, ya think you're too good to talk to me, Lady with a Briefcase?"

As Lorna continues toward the stairs, she remembers the Christine Lavin's concert last Saturday. The folk singer did a song about every bum once being somebody's baby. She turns back. "Good morning," she says to the man that was once someone's child.

Smiling, he lifts his head to doff his knitted, torn cap. Alcohol mixed with wet wool assails her nose. The dog thumps his tail.

As Lorna begins her three-block walk to the plant the rising sun throws an eerie glow, a sure sign the snow will get worse. She's afraid. Footsteps behind her increase her fear. She speeds up. The footsteps match their pace to hers.

She breaks into a run, hoping she can make the plant. There is no place to duck. The one open spot, a rubble-filled lot, was the scene of a rape last week. Drivers went by oblivious to the woman being ravished behind a refrigerator.

"Hey, Lorna, wanta ride?" Her savior is Mike, the plant shuttle driver. He pulls up next to her in the company green Voyageur.

Lorna runs to the van and hoists her skirt so she can climb in without splitting a seam.

"I sure didn't like the way that dude was followin' ya," Mike says.

Lorna swallows her terror in little mouthfuls.

"What ya doin' out so early? This area ain't safe for any woman."

"I like to get in before the phones start ringing."

As he turns into the company parking lot he says, "Maybe ya should come later."

"It's just as bad later in the day."

"Then I'll meet ya at the station mornin's?"

Lorna's heart rate is almost normal. "I can't let you do that."

He swings the car into the parking spot marked -- Company Van Only. He goes around and swings Lorna down from her seat as if she weighed nothing.

"Mike, I'll treat you to what the caf staff pretends is coffee." They pass from the interior decorator designed reception area into an hangar-like open space with exposed metal beams and neon lights. Work benches are aligned from one end to the other.

The cafeteria at the other end is as cosy as the rest of the building is institutionalised. The many-shaded brown carpet hides stains and muffles noise. Each round table, seating four or eight people, has a bud vase.

Gracie, wiry and energetic, stuffs holly springs into vases. The 300-cup percolator's chugs overpowers the Muzak. "Big pot's still brewing. Help yourself to ours." She points to the 10-cup pot the staff uses. Coffee from both smells wonderful but will taste awful.

They sit close to the cash register, waiting for Gracie to finish so Lorna can pay. As each stirs Half-and-Half into the black liquid, it changes to tan.

"I didn't get a look at the man, did you?" Lorna asks.

"I just remember seeing ya run, and he go after ya. When I called, he took off."

Lorna thinks, maybe he should shuttle all female workers. She picks up her Styrofoam cup. The corporation is philosophically opposed to closed offices. Lorna despises the mouse-maze half panels.

Entering her cubby with its stark walls except for a production schedule, she feels more out of place than usual. She keeps her work space impersonal, because she doesn't want to reveal herself to her coworkers by putting up posters or even inspirational sayings like, 'When life gives you lemons, make lemonade'.

Lorna wants to run away from the ghetto, from this job, from not feeling competent. An hour later she still sits frozen, unable to tackle her work. Inertia is alien to her. Even in college, she'd foregone the almost obligatory identity crisis. She thought her friends, revelling in theirs, somehow indulgent.

Jean, her secretary who long ago admitted defeat in the battle of the bulge, pokes her head in. "Hey boss, what's the matter? 'Tis 10 and you've put nothing in my box." She drops a production report on Lorna's desk.

"I can't get it together today," Lorna says.

"Got anything to do with this morning?" To Lorna's surprised look she says-

"Grapevine". It’s the plant's best communication tool. When the company needed to get a policy change out and was afraid people would misunderstand, Jean deliberately left a confidential memo, explaining the reasons, in the copy machine. The true story crossed the plant in an hour. "Let Mike pick you up."

"You've five kids. Why mother me?" Lorna asks.

"'Cause you need it. We all do at times."

As Jean starts to leave Lorna says, "I'll let him pick me up. Jean. "What makes a man a drunk?"

Beats me. My dad was one, you know. " Jean takes the briefcase off Lorna's second chair, a trick discouraging drop-in visitors from staying too long. "He wasn't a mean drunk, my dad. Not like the horror stories about drunks beating up their wives and kids. He'd sit, drink and smile. My mother nagged. He'd drink more until he passed out. Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking about the wino I see almost every morning at the station."            

"The one with the dog?"

"Do you know him?"

"Not personally. The dog's fat. I bet he buys him food before he buys booze."

When Jean leaves, Lorna okays the report without looking at it, the first time she had ever done that and starts another. At 5:30 when Mike drops her at the station the wino is gone.

*****

The reverse commute improves her mood. Lorna buys carnations from a Park Street Station vendor. She hopes it's not a Moonie. Musicians play carols for the crowd waiting for the train. A child sings, "O, Come all ye faithful," with the musicians.

When she unlocks her door the lights are on and a fire burns in her fireplace. Jerry,  her professor lover, sits on her couch, his feet propped on her coffee table watching her television.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi, yourself. I bought stuff  to make us a taco salad. It's in the fridge."

She drops her keys in the wicker basket next to her front door. His unexpected appearance kills her plans for a quiet evening. While he watches John King report on the latest U.S. invasion, she starts dinner.

Standing at the divider between the kitchen and living areas, she watches and spins lettuce.

"Can't you do that more quietly," he asks.

"Sorry."  She gives the lettuce dryer a viscous whirl.

Dinner goes badly. Jerry chides her for forgetting the cucumber. She wants to talk about her day. He wants to watch the news special. After the dishes are done, they decide it's better he go home.

*****

The next morning Lorna calls Mike from her portable phone as she gets out of the subway. She finds herself looking for the wino and his dog. He isn't there. A week passes before the wino is back. She spots him leaning against the wall.

He tips his ribbed cap. "Hello, Lady with a Briefcase." He follows her down the stairs and stands next to her.

"Does your dog bite?"

"Nah, Bruno's a lover, not a biter."

As she pats the animal, he leans his head into her hand to take full advantage of her attention. The van pulls up beeping.

"He's back," Lorna tells Jean.

"Who?"

"The wino and his dog."

*****

Lorna and Jerry go to an old, old French movie  at the Brattle Street Theatre. Gerard Depardieu and Pierre Richard team up as slapstick detectives. She and Jerry hold hands as snow falls lightly as they walk home.

"I like snow," he says.

"That's because you've spent the last ten years in Florida. The novelty will wear off."

A drunk staggers up to them and asks for a quarter. Jerry ignores him.

"Why didn't you give him money?" she asks.

"Are you crazy. He'll only buy booze," he says.

"It might keep him warm."

He launches into a lecture on alcohol and the body's metabolic rate. He shifts to a secondary lecture on moral weaknesses of the lower strata. The word pompous flashes through Lorna's mind, and she thinks of her wino and Bruno.

Lorna has dated Jerry five months. They'd bumped into each other,  literally, at the Museum Fine Arts Store. She'd scooched down to look at a ceramic tile on a bottom shelf. He was examining a puzzle of Van Gogh's Sunflowers above. When she stood, her head hit his chin.

An apology lead to dinner at Joe Tecce's in the North End. A gaggle of plaster cherubs watched them eat spaghetti. Between mouthfuls they discovered mutual interests: music, French movies, the Boston Symphony, sailing, golf, tennis. A violinist took Lorna's red hair as a reason to play When Irish Eyes are Smiling.

Do you believe in equal opportunity?" Jerry asked. Without pausing the violinist swung into Fiddler on The Roof.

Jerry wears on Lorna, not like a well-loved slippers but like shoes that pinch even after weeks of wearing. She becomes increasingly annoyed at his speaking ex cathedra. When she asked him to switch off the light she had to listen to the history of electricity. She turned off the light herself. He forgot.

For all his verbal liberalism, she has observed his tolerance is reserved for his own tight little world. She found herself defending her coworkers as he made fun of people at her office party. She fumed when he expected her to smile as his department's chairman felt her up at his holiday bash.

She considers breaking off, but there's positive things. He's convenient, good in bed and doesn't demand an emotional investment.

*****

Between Christmas and New Year's there's a skeleton crew. Lorna wears jeans to work. Jean is stuffed into pants, too. They rearrange files. Jean orders a pizza for lunch, because the caf is closed. As she pulls at strings of mozzarella she asks, "Have you seen your friend lately. You know, the wino."

"Almost every morning. He struggles to his feet and waits until Mike comes. In a strange way he's kinda nice."

Lorna considers giving the wino money but fears hurting his pride. That he still has pride, she's sure because he's so polite. One morning she pulls a huge bone out of her briefcase. The wino looks at it and says, "And all the time I though you had la di da papers in there."

"I've got those, too. Ooops, here's my ride."

"See ya tomorrow, Lady with a Briefcase."

*****

Lorna tries telling Jerry about the wino, but he won't listen.

After Martin Luther King day the wino is missing. A week later when he's back, they greet each other with old-friend smiles. Bruno thumps his tail.

"You weren't here," she says.

"Went to the Salvation Army shelter. Kicked me out because I smuggled Bruno in." He pats the dog. Some kids shove and push each other. "Stay close to me Lady." He tilts his head toward the kids.

As Lorna tells Jean later, "I doubt if he could help, but his heart is in the right place."

Throughout January the wino walks or staggers to Lorna as soon as she gets off the trolley. He's never there at night, just mornings.

Valentine's Day brings a thaw. The wind, instead of eating at Lorna's skin caresses it. The wino hands her a yellow rose. "For you, Lady with a Briefcase."

"Thank you. I love roses." She gives Bruno lamb scraps from last night's meal. There's an extra chop in case the wino wants it for himself. "Give this to Bruno later," she says leaving the choice to him.

*****

                                                                                                           

In March she decides to offer money. First she asks, "What is your name?"

"Harry."

"Harry, don't take this the wrong way, but could you use some money? I don't want to insult you or anything."

"Heck, Lady with a Briefcase. I'm not insulted. I don't even call it charity."

"What do you call it?"

"Protection money. Who knows what could happen if I didn't wait with you."

"You're right. I feel better knowing you're here." She gives him five dollars.

******

The relationship goes into summer. Sometimes she brings food, sometimes money, sometimes nothing. The wino accepts with a thank you, but never asks for anything.

*****

She applies for a promotion and transfer to Colorado Springs. Jean encourages her to go for it. Jerry says they'll never select a woman. Jerry is wrong. Lorna delights in telling him.

Her last day at the inner city plant comes. Saying goodbye will be easy. The two locations work closely together, and she'll be in regular contact. She steps off the subway carrying packages.

"What's this, Lady with a Briefcase?" The wino asks as Lorna hands him the three gift-wrapped boxes.

"Going away presents. I've been transferred."

Harry sits down. He doesn't say anything.

"Open them. The small one first."

Harry sighs and fumbles with the ribbon. "It's a collar."

"For Bruno."

"Didn't think it was for me. Come here Bruno." He slips the rope from Bruno' neck and fastens the collar. "He looks majestic." Bruno scratches a flea.

"Open the others," she says. Harry does. One contains a pair of pants, the other a striped short-sleeve cotton shirt.

"I hope they fit. The salesman looked as if he were about your size and they fit him."

"Why did you do that, Lady with a Briefcase?" A tear streaks his cheek.

"To thank you for protecting me. I'll miss you." She puts her hand out. He takes it. Then she leans over and kisses his cheek. His beard scratches. His body odor doesn't seem important.

"Goodbye, Lady with a Briefcase.

"Goodbye," Harry."

As Lorna walks toward the company van, she doesn't notice a kid calling another a mother-fucking son of a bitch .