Wanting Rita (18 page)

“I took so many tests, Rita. So many. You have no idea how many tests I took. I’m a doctor, you know, and I know how to take those tests, Rita. I’m smart that way. I took all those tests.”

“And you passed them, didn’t you? You always got A’s, Alan James. Straight As’.”

I shook my head sorrowfully. “No, Rita. Not this time. This time I failed.”

She stepped forward and brushed my cheek with her soft caressing hand. “Well, it’s alright, Alan James. I love you anyway. I’ll always love you anyway.”

I turned half around. “No, Rita, you don’t understand. I failed every single test. It’s over.”

She laughed. “Well, you never should have married her in the first place. Why did you, anyway?”

Suddenly, Rita blurred and rippled into a blue nebulous fog, that rapidly morphed into my wife, Nicole, a red formidable giant who swelled up into a towering genie of intimidation. Looking down with folded arms, her dark reproachful eyes finally settled on me, as she grew 10 to 20 stories high. “Alan, why did you come here?” she hollered.

I cowered behind a rock, petrified.

“You are such a fool! When are you going to learn that you just keep deceiving yourself over and over again?”

I awoke sharply, sat up and threw my legs to the floor. I rubbed my eyes and stood, glancing at my watch. Almost six. I needed a good run. I needed to clear my head of the dream and of the past. I needed to stop thinking for awhile.

In my room, I found some old jogging shorts and Reebok running shoes (I hadn’t used them in at least five years) and pulled on a yellow T-shirt that had NO TIME LIKE NOW, written across the chest in bold black letters. I had no idea where I’d gotten it. I paused at the mirror to look at myself before leaving. Why had Rita looked at me so reproachfully back at Jack’s Diner? What had she seen in my eyes or on my face?

In the mirror, I saw a face that will never be handsome. That nose is too dulled, the skin too pale, the eyes too far apart, the ears flat against the head. There’s no sharpness in the jaw line. The dark eyes, though cool and intelligent, have a disheartening force emanating from them that keeps the world at a distance. The mouth is small, lips well formed, but closed tightly with a hint of impatience. Do my patients see that!?

The hair, a thick glossy black, falls stylishly over the forehead. It’s a quality feature; the one genetic quality that helps to soften the severity a little. I stepped back to view the body. The shoulders weren’t impressive, though the carriage was erect and the chest open in a pride of confidence and correctness. But, quizzically, at the macro viewing, when I looked deeply into that face, I saw some submerged relic of emotion, pacing, molding the body in a contradiction of features and expressions. Who and what art thou, Dr. Lincoln? See how you’ve let yourself gain weight, not quite thick around the middle, but losing waist definition. Why? To never be called a skinny nerd again. No, give me the serious man of substantial stature, who is skilled at projecting attractive fronts. Yes, the primary care physician who sees patients every 15 minutes, writes referrals, documents every single bit of minutia of communication, prescribes pills and advice and sometimes bullshit (because I haven’t a clue what to say or what medical advice to give).

Despite the attractive fronts, blur of years and stellar achievements, swimming in my veins were aged and unfulfilled adolescent hormones, like a good aged wine, still waiting to be uncorked and tasted with the “supper” of Rita. Bloodwork couldn’t analyze them. They couldn’t be detected by MRI or x-ray. They couldn’t be heard with a stethoscope, nor rationalized or interpreted by therapy.

I was still searching for fulfillment, for the blush and passion of reunion with the 18 year-old essence of Rita.

I sprang away from the house and jogged sluggishly in the direction of the old railroad station, over a sharp green slope, past a withered vegetable garden now mostly flooded with purple wild flowers. The railroad station was at least two miles away and I remembered a route that would take me along dirt paths and open fields to avoid busy roads.

I should have done some stretching. Every muscle seemed knotted and stiff. I jogged easily, not going for speed, slipping into a cool bank of trees, exiting the other side, near a garrulous brook, and then up a steep dirt path. The flat moan of a train whistle soothed, dissolving my mind’s screen of rambling images, calling me to focus on the soft evening light, settling over the land with a prayerful serenity and creeping low shadows.

Further along, the stiffness in my legs and back persisted, but I built speed gradually along an old tar-covered road, where years ago, I’d whirled on my bicycle toward Sawmill Lake and an afternoon of fishing. I soon left the paved road for another dirt path and after a mile or so, when I was winded, I slowed the pace, struggling to balance my inhalation and exhalation. I listened to the comfortable and steady thud of my shoes striking the earth, and for a few seconds, I shut my eyes, enjoying the sound and feel of my feet being gently sucked and released by the soft mud. It felt good being in touch with the earth that way; to have a kind of physical call and response dialogue with it—feet patter—so intimate and distinctive and far from the city. I’d forgotten that—forgotten that Hartsfield had restful paths, quiet fields and protected streams and trees. I glanced skyward and saw geese beating up from a lake, rising over trees, angling, honking into the pink pastel horizon.

Minutes later, I broke from a winding path into an open field, and looked left at teenage boys playing soccer. Their orange and green jerseys and their urgent, jubilant cries pierced the peace, but didn’t shatter it. There was comfort in it, like the noise of children during holiday celebrations.

The sun sparked off little puddles and from a wet cement wall in the distance, near the old, boarded-up, red-bricked railroad station. I was well aware of why I’d chosen this spot for my jog. Rita had returned home from the State beauty pageant, by train, in late October, fifteen years ago. Dad had sent me the article my freshman year in college and I’d read it, repeatedly, as I worked on a slow anger.

In the photograph, Rita was standing on the train platform in a low-cut dress, head thrown back, with a killer smile, waving, obviously enjoying the summit of the moment. But she hadn’t won. She’d come in third. I thought it impossible. The smoke of irritation and resentment had hovered about me for a week. “It was rigged. It’s all politics. They’re all blind idiots!” I’d ranted.

But in the photo, I saw no sadness in Rita—no sign of defeat or regret. On the contrary, she projected grace and natural dignity.

My father had written: “I think that’s the last we’ll hear of the regal Rita Fitzgerald. She had her 15 minutes. Her star has risen and fallen. Her revels have now ended and she is melted into air…into thin air. She and Dusty Palmer are getting married next month.”

My father’s quote from
The Tempest
irritated me. I thought his comments were petty. I realized then, with some disappointment, that he had been jealous of Rita. In what form or manner, I didn’t know, but it radiated off his scratch pad like the smell of rotten fish, so that the beautifully printed script at the top of the sheet: “From the desk of Richard Alan Lincoln,” actually seemed to say, “We, the fortunate and superior, have won again and, God willing, it will always be so.”

I ripped up the clipping, and his note, and threw them in a dumpster on my way to Psychology 101. Now, I wished I’d kept them.

I cut through a field of wild flowers, feeling a sudden burst of energy, and sprinted toward the station house just ahead. The porch was broken-backed over the post that had once supported it, and unruly shrubs and weeds were taking “the little red house” over. I circled it twice, imagining Rita descending the train to the platform, into the cheering, welcoming crowds. Dad said there were over 300 people there that day. I hopped and skipped the rails and scaled the squeaky wooden platform, feeling a great solemnity, a guilty sorrow, a great loss. I didn’t want to leave Hartsfield until I saw Rita again. I needed to see her one more time.

I ran in place, squinting up at the wooden sign hanging lopsided on the face of the station. Ten years of punishment from sun and rain had left the white and black paint cracked and faded. I could just barely read the letters: HARTSFIELD, PA.

I circled the station once more, dodging broken glass, tall weeds and old railroad tiles, and then started for home.

Approaching the house from the left side, maintaining a slow even pace across the sturdy grass, I saw a sun-faded gray car in the driveway, parked behind mine. I ran toward it, leaping the two-foot hedge, turning sharply toward the front porch. When I saw her, sitting on the stairs, on the edge of sunlight and shadow, I came to an abrupt stop, winded and damp.

Rita’s lowered head lifted with surprise and interest. A rabbit burst from the hedge, struck the ground, leaped and darted away, finding shadows and then the safety of forsythia and box hedges. Rita didn’t seem to notice. She arose slowly, eyes timid, her posture stiff and uncertain. She held a brown manila envelope in her right hand that she shifted to her left as I started toward her. She seemed to have retreated into her loose jeans and large, off-white sweatshirt. The red sneakers were faded and tattered. She wore pink lipstick, but little makeup or eye shadow; there was a small diamond stud glittering in the right side of her nose. She was ruler-thin and pale, with a recessive energy that made it seem as if her heart pumped grudgingly.

I studied her in detail, taking her apart, searching for a clue to her state of mind, struggling to breech the jarring moment with an easy word or careful phrase that would link us back to the past, but keep us cleverly anchored in the present. She descended the three stairs and came to me.

I quickly wiped my sweaty face with the tail of my t-shirt, still catching breaths, anxious. There was a deep stillness around us, as if we stood in the center of a lake at noon.

“Hi,” I said, almost at a whisper.

She didn’t speak, enlarging the silence.

I tried again. “It’s…good to see you, Rita. I’m glad you came by.”

She drew herself up to a weak dignity, but didn’t talk. She offered me the manila envelope, as the sunlight retreated to the tops of trees and far-away hills, gilding them. I took the envelope.

She swallowed, and seemed to want to speak, but didn’t.

“Can I open it?” I asked.

She nodded.

I pinched the two copper pins together until they were vertical, lifted the flap and drew out the paper-clipped typed pages. I examined the first page. It was entitled
The Infinite Letting Go
.

Rita stood in a remote politeness. She looked down at the cement walk.

“So you want me to read it?” I asked.

She nodded again.

“Okay…I’d love to.”

She shrugged, delicately, then turned and set off for her car. I went after her. “Rita…”

She stopped, but didn’t face me.

“Rita…I really am glad you came by.”

She entered her car without a word. I waved as she drove away. Silly, I knew, but I did. I lingered in the yard, moving through retreating shadows. I sat on the porch swing, feet flat, stationary, staring into the distance, until sleepy clouds, flamed by a setting sun, were brushed gold.

I laid the pages on my lap and began to read. There was still enough light.

The Infinite Letting Go

There was a large round boulder that sat, like a wise meditating sage, in her backyard, just beyond where wild roses grew in summer, near a natural brook, whose quiet music crept into her dreams and daydreams; and it lay under the wide protective spread of a very old sycamore tree, where she’d played and slept.

The boulder had been there since the beginning of time, or so the old man had told her, and it had a very important and unique purpose: it anchored the world. If it was ever removed, so the old man had said, the world would simply drift out of orbit, lose its laws of motion and gravity and, like a balloon, float endlessly toward nowhere and no place.

So she watched the boulder from her bedroom window—with wide, alert eyes—and prayed that it would never be taken away.

And so it was that the boulder, so gray and formidable, lay undisturbed for many years, until the day the bulldozers came. That day was known as “Bulldozer Day.” A big house was going up and land was needed and had to be cleared. The sycamore tree would have to come down; the wild roses destroyed and burned; and the boulder, scooped up and taken away.

For many, many days the girl watched the bulldozers cough smoke and scour the land, crawling like strange yellow invaders toward the boulder; toward ultimate destruction. Her Daddy drove one of those machines, and he loved leveling and remaking the land. He loved the God in it: the God of creation, who overrules old, wild things.

The old man came by one day. The girl watched him mope and stumble across ruddy earth, rock and broken trees. She watched him shake his bony fist at them and curse them in a brittle cry of rage. But it did not even crack the hard shell of the growl and scrape of the masticating machines.