Rules Get Broken (27 page)

“Do you like the smell of gasoline?” Nancy asked suddenly.

Her question took me totally by surprise. For a second I had no idea what she was talking about, and then I knew. “Yes! Yes! I do. I love the smell of gasoline, and when I smell gasoline I think of boats. Weird, but I do. You too?”

“Me too,” Nancy replied. “I love the smell of gasoline. And creosote. And the smell of a wooden boat on a hot summer day. That combination of paint, caulking, oil, gasoline and…wood. And the smell of salty air. I love it all. The best times I ever had growing up,” Nancy continued, “were on my parents’ and grandparents’ boats. I can still remember waking up in my bunk to the smell of coffee brewing on the alcohol stove. And the morning dew on the decks and in the cockpit and how glass smooth the water was early in the morning before any breeze came up. And how my job was to sweep the companionway and the main salon every morning after breakfast. I remember swimming all day, coming out of the water only for lunch and dinner. And waiting that hour before I was allowed back in so I wouldn’t get a cramp. I had so much fun fishing in my grandfather’s dinghy with my brother, clamming at low tide, eating whatever we caught for dinner. What wonderful times.”

“You got that right,” I agreed, equally deep in reverie.

Nancy interrupted my thoughts with another question. “You said you bought one of your boats with money you earned with your band?”

“That’s right.”

“What instrument did you play?”

“Drums. I was the drummer in a rock and roll band called ‘The Majestics.’” I couldn’t help grinning at the thought of The Majestics and the stream of memories the name brought to the surface.

“How big a group?”

“There were five of us—lead guitar, rhythm guitar, bass and electric organ. And me on the drums.”

“Were you good?”

“Yeah, we were. I have to say we were. We started out playing at church youth group functions, then at class dances and proms at local high schools, and then at beach clubs and bars. Made a lot of money and had some unbelievable experiences. The band also gave me a chance to be somebody—to stop feeling like a loser.”

“What do you mean?” Nancy asked, confused by my admission.

I let out a little sigh. I hadn’t really intended to go down this road, but I was committed now. “When I was a little kid, I was always picked on. Don’t know why. Maybe because I was soft. Maybe because I wore glasses. Who knows? But picked on I was. Things were so bad at one point while I was in grade school that my mother drove me to and from school every day. Otherwise the kids would push me through the hedges of a house on the way to school and throw my books all over the street.”

I gave a cynical snort at the thought of my pain back then. “Anyway, humiliation and low self-esteem were very much a part of my life. I remember one day in the third grade, the gym teacher, Mr. Elliot…God, I remember this like it was yesterday…picked Bobby Goodman and Peter Erland as team captains for kickball and told them to pick their team members. So Bobby and Peter, little shits that they were, with great ceremony picked their teams one by one until finally they’d selected everyone but a short, hopelessly fat kid and me. And there I stood for what seemed like an eternity, in the middle of the gymnasium, with all my classmates standing along the walls of the gym watching, waiting, giggling, while Bobby and Peter negotiated between themselves as to who would get the fat kid and who would get me.”

“What a nightmare,” Nancy exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief.

“When it was time for me to go into seventh grade,” I continued, “my folks sent me to St. Paul’s School for Boys in Garden City. And nothing changed. My first year there I spent the second half of every lunch hour—the time when we were allowed outside before afternoon classes—hunkered down underneath the bleachers out by the football field, hiding until the second bell so no one would beat me up.

“Then two things happened. First, I started to lift weights in eighth grade. So by the time I started ninth grade, I’d lost the baby fat and gained some muscle. And the bullies left me alone. And second—this is where the band comes in—some of the kids on the sophomore class dance committee knew about The Majestics, and they asked us to play for the dance. Which we did.

“And let me tell you, my classmates were amazed at how good The Majestics were and at how good I was on the drums. That night literally changed the rest of my high school experience. So…a long story, but the band gave me a new lease on life when I very badly needed one.”

I took a long sip of my drink, the first in several minutes. “I didn’t mean to keep going on like that,” I apologized. “Sometimes the answer to a question just leads to other things, I guess. I’m sorry for talking so much.”

“Don’t be silly,” Nancy replied. “If I didn’t want you to talk, I wouldn’t have asked the questions.”

“What surprises me,” I said, “is that you’ve only asked me about my distant past, so to speak. You know what I mean. No questions about my being married. No questions about my wife. No questions about her death. No questions about stuff like that. Even though I know you must have them.”

“I thought if you wanted to talk about those things, you’d bring them up,” Nancy said. “I shouldn’t because I don’t know if you want to talk about them or not.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, “but don’t be afraid to ask those questions if you ever want to.”

“Do you mean that?”

“I do.”

“Well, maybe I can ask you something now?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t ask you this,” Nancy started hesitantly, “but I need to. So my question is, what about Peg? Do you think about her? And about what happened?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely confused. “I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“I guess what I’m saying is…we’re sitting here talking about fun things, fun memories, and you seem perfectly okay. But I can’t believe you are. So I’m wondering if you think about Peg. That’s my question. You have to be. She must be right below the surface, and yet you don’t show it. And I’m wondering how that’s possible.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Wow, that is a question,” I said. I pulled at an eyebrow, buying myself time.

“You don’t have to answer. I probably shouldn’t have asked.”

“No. No, it’s all right. I’m glad you did.” I took another deep breath, this one shakier than the first, and my eyes started to fill. “She is right below the surface, as you put it, Nancy. She’s there all the time. Even now as we sit here. But I can’t let myself think about her, because when I do, this is what happens.” I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand.

“So most of the time, when I’m in the office, when I’m with a customer, with the kids, with you tonight, I don’t think about her. I don’t let myself think about her. Because I know if I do, I’ll start behaving like this.” I shuddered and wiped my eyes again.

“I miss her so much I can’t think about her or talk about her without coming apart. She was the most important thing in the world to me. And when I realize I’ll never see her again for as long as I live…”

I stopped talking and reached for my handkerchief. “Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to expose you to this.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t need this, and I don’t need this.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have asked,” Nancy said, visibly annoyed with herself.

“No, no. I’m not saying that. Not at all.”

“What are you saying then?”

“I’m saying you don’t need to watch a guy you hardly know cry. And I’m saying, trying to say…Let me put it this way. When I was with you Sunday night…I was running away. And tonight, sitting here with you…I’m running away again. I know that’s wrong, but it’s just so good to forget all the stuff that’s happened. If only for a little while. Is that so terrible?”

“No, that’s not so terrible. But you should talk about Peg to someone. Because you need to. To feel better. To be happy again. To be able to face the rest of your life. And if you want to talk to me about her—if you think that’ll help you—I don’t mind. I’d like to hear about her. And I don’t mind if you cry. Honest.”

Nancy watched me wipe my eyes with my handkerchief. She watched me blow my nose one last time, and she watched me carefully fold the handkerchief before stuffing it back into my pocket. She watched me shudder again and heave a deep sigh. And as she watched me, she thought about herself and what she was doing.

This is absolutely crazy
, she thought.
Why am I doing this? Why am I telling you to talk to me about your wife? About something so terribly personal and painful? Why am I letting you use me like that? I guess because you’re in pain, and you need help. And because something tells me you’re special. Maybe very special. So I’ll let you run away to me. At least for now.

I started to tell Nancy about Peg that night. She asked how we met, and I told her about Sarah O’Connell and New Year’s Eve and the umbrella stand.

“Did Peg live in the city while you were going out with her?” Nancy asked.

“Yeah. She had an apartment.”

“Where?”

“East 67th street. 220 East 67th Street. On the 8th floor. A really nice apartment too. Big living room, separate kitchen, dining alcove, two bedrooms. Hardwood floors. Even had a small balcony overlooking 67th Street.”

“Wow. That’s quite a place for one person.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to imply that. She shared it with Sarah, who was her roommate, and two other girls.”

“Still, that’s quite a place. Especially in the city.”

“You’re right. It was. And because her apartment was on the East Side, she was in the middle of everything. We went out every weekend to really great spots for drinks, dinner, whatever. Romantic ‘New York’ type of places, if you know what I mean. We went to shows. On Broadway. Off Broadway. Concerts. You name it. We did it.”

I realized I was looking past Nancy, not at her, as I got caught up in the memories of Saturday nights in another life. I purposefully shifted my gaze back to her.

“We had a lot of fun,” I continued. “And sometimes all of her roommates would go home for the weekend or go away with their boyfriends and we’d have the whole apartment to ourselves. That was really neat.”

“What was Peggy’s maiden name?”

Another question from left field. “Reilly. Her full name was Margaret Ellen Reilly.”

“So she was Irish?”

I smiled. “Oh, yes, she was Irish. Very much the Irish colleen, as my father used to call her.”

“Was she born in Ireland?”

“No. She was born here. Her parents were born in Ireland, though. Both her mother and her father. Her mother, Maureen—her maiden name was Casey, I think—came to the States when she was in her late twenties and worked as a hotel maid. Her father was a sailor and came here when he was about forty. He met Maureen somehow somewhere in New York, married her and moved to Englewood, New Jersey.”

“Was Peg their only child?”

“No. They had four daughters. Peg was the oldest. Then there was Kathleen, then Megan, then Erin.”

Nancy reached for her glass of Chardonnay and took a sip. “Did Peggy go to college?” she asked as she sat back again.

“She did. She went to Douglass College for Women in New Brunswick, New Jersey—I think it’s part of Rutgers—and she majored in English.”

“I take it she graduated?”

“Yes. But she almost didn’t because she almost didn’t go to college.”

“Why?”

“While she was a senior in high school, her father died of complications from gall bladder surgery, which left her mother with no income except for a small police officer’s pension. So Peg thought she wouldn’t be able to afford to go to college. But an old-line women’s club of some sort in Englewood learned of her situation and asked her to meet with them. She did, and they gave her a full scholarship to Douglass. She really lucked out.”

“I’ll say. Did she move into the apartment right after she graduated?”

“No. When she graduated, she moved back home with her mother and commuted from Englewood to a job in the city for about a year. And then, like you, she decided it was time to move out and get a place of her own. Which is how she ended up in the apartment on 67th Street.”

“Is that when you met her? After she moved into the city, I mean?”

“No,” I said with an apparently suspicious-looking smile. “She was still living at home when I met her.”

“Why are you smiling like that?” Nancy asked.

“Boy, you don’t miss much, do you?”

“I try not to,” Nancy answered, a bit smugly.

“I was just remembering the first time I picked Peg up at her house. On our second date. Our first date, you’ll recall, was on New Year’s Eve, and I picked her up at my cousin’s house. Anyway, I ring the doorbell, and Peg answers the door, says hello or whatever and asks me to come in so she can introduce me to her mother. I come inside, and I find myself face to face with a little, wiry, blue-haired old lady who’s sitting on the sofa, with crochet work or needlepoint or something in her lap. And she’s looking up at me through horn-rimmed glasses with these incredibly piercing blue eyes. My first reaction is, ‘My God, what a nasty old bitch.’ I’m almost scared of her as I stand there saying hello, trying to be charming. Turns out she wasn’t like that at all, but that was my first impression. The funny thing is, looking back years later, I realized I was probably her worst nightmare come true. She was undoubtedly hoping someday Peggy would marry a Michael or a Sean or a Patsy, and here I was, a dyed-in-the-wool WASP. That’s why I smiled.”

“How long did the two of you date?”

“Before I asked her to marry me?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see. Our first date was New Year’s Eve in 1968. And I asked her to marry me in October of 1970. So that would make it almost two years. Which reminds me of a funny story.”

I leaned forward, picked up my glass from the cocktail table and took a quick sip. “The night I proposed to Peg, I made reservations at a really nice place on Central Park South called Harry’s New York Bar. To me, Harry’s New York Bar was the perfect place to ask someone to marry you—dark mahogany paneling, thick carpets, starched tablecloths, waiters in tuxedos, really subdued lighting, quiet even when the place was full. A really cool place.