Wanting Rita (28 page)

She raked her fingers through her hair. “I told Dusty I wanted to get married as soon as we could. He didn’t know what hit him. I swarmed him with plans and dreams and love. He wasn’t so strong, Alan James, but he was a good father and husband until the last two years.”

“But you loved him?”

“Yes. I grew to love him very much, and never regretted marrying him, until... We were good and faithful to each other and we worked hard to make our marriage work.” She tended her hair, absently. “We worked so damn hard…”

“Why didn’t you have another child?” I asked.

“We did… I lost it in the second month. That was almost eight years ago. Then Dusty wanted to wait until the business grew and he wasn’t so busy. That was okay with me because I wanted to go to college and finish my degree anyway. But he didn’t want me to. He got weird about it. It made him insecure or something. Made him feel like a failure. He said we didn’t have the money for school and that I should just go get a job. We argued about it awhile, then, I don’t know, I just got tired of arguing, and so I didn’t finish school and I went to work as a cashier at a supermarket. When I look back on it now, I can see that we were already beginning to separate.”

Rita peered down at the tracks, and slumped a little. “Well, anyway, we didn’t have another child.” A moment later she turned to me with a weary acceptance. “The weeds are pretty high on the tracks, aren’t they, Alan James?”

I wished the train would come. I prayed for it to come roaring, thundering toward us—puffing black balls of smoke like those hulking iron trains in old westerns. I longed to hear the low growing rumble, the hiss of steam, the blaring, powerful blast of the whistle stunning our ears. I longed to feel the soles of my feet and chest vibrate; feel the entire trestle violently shake us to forgetfulness; feel the victory, the driving charge of the train’s approach and the explosion of gusting wind whipping us ecstatic, as it passed, scattering leaves, weeds and the old dust of our lives to some fresh plot of ground. I wished hard for it to come.

I hung my head over the railing. “Yeah, Rita, the weeds are real high. Trains don’t come this way anymore.”

Chapter Six

We left the trestle disappointed and quiet. I thought it might cheer us if we returned to the lake where we’d first made love, although those weren’t the words I used with Rita.

“Remember that beautiful lake we went to on our second date, when you tried to get me to dance? Moon Lake?”

“You remembered the name,” she said, brightly.

“Of course I remember.”

“I wrote all about it in my diary that night.”

“Really? What did you say?”

“Oh, something like, Alan James is a terrible dancer, has a snotty, pompous personality and I wish we could run off together, become writers and live happily ever after.”

“I wish we had,” I said, reflectively.

She worked on a slow thought as she turned to me. Her face softened. “Me, too, Alan James.”

I turned off the main highway onto what was once an old dirt road, now smoothly paved and called “Spinnaker Drive.” Rita said I wouldn’t know the place, and she was right. Summer homes spotted the entire area, along with a wide variety of NO TRESPASSING and PRIVATE PROPERTY signs. When Rita directed me toward the turnoff that led to the magical view of the lake, I immediately saw the yellow DEAD END sign and the imposing two-story house and two-car garage, that now rested precisely on the spot where I had lost my virginity. We pulled up and stopped, craning our necks to view just a sliver of the lake.

The owners owned that spectacular view of the lake now, which included the vague outline of bungalows and cottages on the opposite shore. They owned the sounds of migrating birds, the creeks splashing down from high cliffs, and the lazy lap of the lake below. They owned that soaring vaulted piece of sky, the cool fresh air and the dawn and sunset. But I comforted myself with the thought that I owned, and would always own, the memories of that wonderful night with Rita.

While I gazed, I recalled a poem I’d memorized for freshman English class. I settled into the seat while I played it back in my mind. It was by Rainer Maria Rilke:

Flare up like a flame 
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. 
Just keep going. No feeling is final. 
Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.

You will know it by its seriousness. 
Give me your hand.

We returned to the house around six. Before leaving the car, Rita touched my arm. She wanted to take me to dinner, she said, and she wanted to pay. I finally agreed, seeing the determination in her eyes. She gave me the address of the restaurant. I was to meet her there at 7:30. She said she’d make the reservation.

After she drove away, I went inside, turned on my cell phone and checked messages. There was one from the office that I followed-up on. There was nothing from Nicole. She seemed thousands of miles away. I showered and rummaged up an old blue blazer, blue stripped shirt and a tight fitting pair of gray slacks.

Nicole was a convenient comparison, now, to Rita and me—one that I could hold up in the mirror, as I dried and brushed my hair, and say “See, we couldn’t have really loved each other—no, not truly, because the relationship didn’t last. It wasn’t a love like the love I had, and now have again, with Rita—a constant love that can take any blow and withstand any deep cutting wound.”

Hadn’t I always known that—even at seventeen? Wasn’t it always a strong certainty? I just simply knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Rita was “my” true love. Seeing her again only confirmed it. My love for Rita, incessant and true, had once again been awakened from its long sleep. As I stared into the mirror at my expectant face, I saw that love—and it was as stark, inexplicable and uneraseable as the red flame of a birth mark.

Nicole was already becoming a kind of fiction to me. Our entire relationship was fast becoming a story I’d once read or written, where entire episodes of our marriage were becoming half-read, half-remembered paragraphs and chapters. Who could remember what the whole thing was about, anyway? We were minor characters, not so important now, except that we had helped to shine pure light on the main plot: the real story of Rita and me, and the future.

I parked in The Ashford Inn parking lot and got out. It was 7:20. It had clouded up, and cooled down; it looked as though it could rain at any moment. The Inn was quaint, a colonial style building with a sloping roof, burgundy shudders and ubiquitous white Christmas lights adorning the surrounding trees and shrubs. There was a little white sign near the entrance, announcing that Ben Franklin had actually eaten there, once, on his way to New York.

In the foyer, I waited for Rita, taking in the pastoral landscape paintings by Philadelphia-area artists. Rita finally appeared at 7:43, flushed and anxious, in a powder blue dress, 2-inch heels and gold hoop earrings. Her perfume drew me toward her.

“Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.

She nodded, but I could see trouble in her eyes. “…Sorry I’m late. Let’s sit down.”

The main dining room was cozy and sedate, with muted lighting, cream-colored walls and white linen table cloths. It was only half filled. We were seated at a table a short distance from the fireplace, with a clear view of a male guitarist. He was on a platform, seated on a stool under a blue pin spot, plucking a combination of light classical music and jazz.

The menus were dropped, our little table candle lit, and the water poured.

“Your father?” I finally asked.

She nodded. “He’ll be gone soon. He never stays long.” Rita worked to brighten her mood as she perused the menu. “The duck looks good... and the crab cakes.”

I forced a little enthusiasm, feeling threatened by Frank Fitzgerald’s all too near presence. “Duck with gingered raspberry-Amaretto glaze and almond cous cous sound awfully good.”

Rita glowed warmly in the soft candlelight. “The crab cakes come with cottage fries and cabbage slaw in a remoulade sauce,” she added.

“You’ve sold me,” I said.

Rita looked up. “On which one?”

“All of them.”

Rita laughed.

I ordered the crab cakes and Rita the duck. Rita let me order the wine, while she left to freshen up. I was sure she needed the time to recover from the argument with her father. Despite the crab cakes, I chose a Cabernet Sauvignon. I thought it would be better with the duck, and white wine reminded me of Nicole: she seldom drank red.

By the time Rita returned, all smiles, the bread was served and wine poured in elegant crystal glasses. We toasted to “reunions” as the guitarist played
It Might As Well Be Spring
.

We talked in generalities for awhile, carefully evading any uncomfortable subjects. She brought me up-to-date on the town, classmates and teachers. According to Ellen Tucker, Ms. Lyendecker was living alone in a small town about 25 miles from Hartsfield. We both thought it would be fun to drop by and see her. I suggested tomorrow and Rita brightened.

When the food arrived, we ate with an aggressiveness that surprised us. Rita said she hadn’t been that hungry in months. I was driven by mild nerves and a mounting sense of stress, aware that there was serious conversation to come. I wanted to propose something to Rita and I was hoping she’d agree.

The wine and music gently intoxicated us, gradually slowing our pace and lulling us in a comfortable trance. After the table was cleared, Rita leaned forward on her elbows, folding her hands and resting her chin on them. Her eyes had a dreamy, relaxed quality, a youthful playfulness I hadn’t seen in 15 years.

“Alan James…”

“Yes…”

“I’m a little drunk.”

“So am I.”

“I haven’t had alcohol in a long time.”

“We’ll go slow.”

“But we didn’t, and the wine is almost gone.”

“Okay, so we’ll pretend we went slow.”

“I haven’t taken any medication today. None. I feel better. I talk better.”

“Good. But you probably shouldn’t drop it cold turkey. Maybe you should talk it over with your doctor.”

She shrugged. “Yes, Doctor.”

Over coffee, Rita asked me more about my life; more details about college and medical school; about my parents and sister and what it was like being a doctor. We talked easily and long. Still emboldened by the wine, she finally asked again about Nicole. I told her how we met, where we lived and explained, again, without going into any specifics, that we’d gradually lost our love for each other.

When there was a pause, I gave a quick glance around, deciding the moment was right to share with Rita what I’d been thinking.

“Rita.”

“Yes, Dr. Alan James. Does anyone else call you Dr. Alan James?”

“No. Rita…Listen, I want to propose something to you.”

“I’d love to, Alan James.”

“You don’t know what it is.”

“I don’t care. I’d still love to.”

“Rita… I want you to move into the house.”

Her eyelids fluttered. She lowered her hands and lifted her head. “Your house?”

“Yes.”

She unclasped her hands and picked at the tablecloth. “Why?”

“You’ll be away from your father and I’ll have someone to look after the place when I’m not there. And…I thought I could come and visit you on weekends.”

For a moment, Rita fidgeted with her left hoop earring. I couldn’t read her thoughts. I looked into her wavering, uncertain eyes. “Rita?”

She groped for words. “Alan James…When I saw the psychic …You remember I told you about that.”

“Yes…”

“She went into this kind of trance and she said that… Darla was happy. She said she was in a very pretty place and that she was happy.”

“I’m sure she is. I hope she is.”

“But you don’t believe in heaven and all of that stuff, do you?”

“I don’t know, Rita.”

“I talked to her…to Darla.” Rita’s voice became soft and reminiscent. “Darla said she was happy and that I shouldn’t worry about her. She said…she said…” Rita faltered, sudden tears forming, and her eyes shined in the candlelight. “She said…she didn’t feel anything when she died. She said angels were waiting for her—beautiful angels—and a girlfriend who had died only the year before, of leukemia. Darla said, the girl was there waiting for her. They’re good friends there, Darla said. She said they are happy together and that I shouldn’t worry and grieve about her anymore.”

Rita wiped her eyes.

I sat still, hearing rain strike the nearby windows.

“I believed it all, Alan James. I did. I believed every damned lying word of it, and I felt better for a few hours. I might even go back and listen to the same lies all over again. Maybe I’ll go to another psychic and believe her lies too. Hell, maybe I’ll start giving séances myself.”

I took her hand. “Rita… I want to help you through this. I want to go through it with you. I think if you stay at the house—away from your father, your past... away from…” I had a sudden thought. “You could work in the gardens! Plant flowers, vegetables, take walks. You could do whatever you want. You could write! Whatever. Wouldn’t you like to work in the gardens?”