RSS 2.0 FeedThe Anniversary
They had been married for nearly twenty years – a life journey together long enough to leave footprints from their happiness, troubles and travails. Today was their wedding anniversary. They sat on the beach, the very spot where they had spent their first married hours. The smell and sound of the crashing waves and the warm ocean air which caressed them were the same as those many years ago. Still, there was a chill in the air.
He sat close to her to watch the sun give up its last gasp of energy for the day. Giving her a hug, he hoped to show his affection and symbolize their lives together.
She didn’t respond as she had on their honeymoon. She sat as quietly as the disappearing day. Disappointment crawled across his face. Silently, he stared at the fading sun, dropped his arm, and sipped his wine, emptying his glass. He reached for the bottle and found it, to his dismay, empty. He lifted it to look through it as if it were a spyglass. She watched him with no humor, no sympathy, for his plight.
She brushed away the wisp of blond hair that the wind had blown across her eyes, and dropped her hand to her lap where she twirled her wedding rings around her finger. She wiggled her feet into the sand and buried them. Lifting her head, she looked sadly at him – focused on his bloodshot eyes. She said in a low voice, “What a life we’ve had together. What a wonderful human being you were until four-fifths of your personality became defined by a fifth – and it still controls you. I know you’re sentimental about this day, this spot, this time, but it’s booze motivating you. It gives you pleasure. It promises you a rebirth of love and romance that died years ago. Let’s get this straight, there’s not going to be revival of our marriage. It went down the drain the moment you took your first swallow after rehab. I can’t feel otherwise – and, I’m not going to pretend otherwise just because this is our anniversary.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then he slurred, “You accuse me of being an alcoholic. Always have. Well, for your information, I’m not an alcoholic. How could I be? I don’t go to AA meetings.”
Without glancing at him, she stood, brushed off the sand clinging to her dress, and ambled back to what had been their honeymoon cottage. She slammed the door as she went in, turning her back on the last rays of the sun. He picked up his bottle, and its last rays were gone, too. Their souls were absorbed into the darkness of the night.
The Jakes sat in the theater, motionless, as THE END flashed on the screen. Jim Jakes stood to go, but Ann continued to sit, frozen, watching the credits until there were no more. Finally, she got up and asked, “Do you have a hanky? Mine’s soaked, and I don’t want to walk out of here looking like a raccoon.” He handed her his handkerchief, and they left.
She pulled her sweater over her rangy body as far as it could go to ward off the evening chill as they walked to the parking lot. She asked, “So what did you think of it? I know it’ll be up for an Academy Award. Has to be.”
“Yeah, I suppose so. I saw you bawling during that last scene. In my opinion, it doesn’t have a chance.”
“Why do you think that? It was a powerful movie. The acting was superb. I was right there with them.”
“So I noticed. Well, in the first place, it didn’t have the Hollywood formula for a winner. No sex, no drugs, no violence, and they didn’t use the word that Hollywood writers typically use every other sentence. Not once. And, as far as my personal reaction goes, it was too touchy-feely for me.”
“Not for me.”
“I know.” Jim yawned. “But there’s one thing that was kind of eerie.”
“What’s that?”
“With the exception of two things, you and the wife looked an awfully lot alike. You both have a rare beauty and the same soothing mannerisms.”
“What are the two differences – be careful.”
“Well, first, her hair was blond and yours is red, and, second, she had very big…”
“Watch out.”
“Feet. Feet! Didn’t you see how big they were when she dug them into the sand?”
“You got out of that one, didn’t you? Preeety slick,” she purred. “Thanks, though, for the backhand compliment.”
They drove to their two-story, red brick colonial. A cocoon snuggled in a quiet, upper-middle-class suburb of Chicago. The drive home was short but long in silence – a silence of contemplation more than of disagreement. Parking on the driveway, Jim cursed as he wiggled his 6’4” frame out of Ann’s Beemer, a yellow convertible. “Your car is too damned small for me.”
“You always say that. Why don’t we take yours next time?”
“I need to drive yours once in a while to see if it’s running OK.”
“Are you sure that’s the only reason? Or is it that you don’t want me to ride in your car?”
“Why would you ask such a goofy question?”
Ann ignored him as they entered their hallway.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to go there right now. Want a nightcap before we go to bed?”
“No. I’m dead tired. Got a big day tomorrow, and I need all the sleep I can get.”
“OK. I’m going to have a glass of wine. I want to think some more about the movie. It moved me. Gave me something to consider.”
Jim trudged up the stairs, tore off his clothes, scattering them helter-skelter on the floor. He fell onto their king-sized bed, not bothering to put on pajamas, and fell fast asleep.
Ann opened a bottle of Merlot and took a glass of it to the den. She purposely sat in the big leather chair considered Jim’s. She crossed her legs and cuddled the wine in both hands. She didn’t put on a Sondheim CD, as was her custom; instead she sipped her wine and stared into space as if trying to find the limits of the universe – at least hers. Soon tears from her blue-green eyes gathered in the wells of her tanned cheeks. Then they swelled into a wet, mushy sob, which she struggled to stifle. After composing herself, she took a last sip, wiped her nose on a cocktail napkin, and stomped up to the bedroom.
Unlike her habit of changing into her nightclothes in the dressing room, Ann undressed at the foot of their bed, making as much commotion as she could. The nightgown she put on was not her usual attire. Rather than a short, near-see-through, silk gown that emitted a sexy enticement to her body, it looked like a gunnysack. She stared at her sleep-heaving husband and blurted, “Are you awake?”
No response from the dead.
“Jim! Wake up. I need to talk.”
“What? What? Ohhh, no,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “You want to talk? What could be so important at this hour? I told you I have a big day at the office tomorrow – today,” as he looked at his watch. “Can’t whatever is on your mind wait? Is it that movie?”
“No”, she interrupted. “It’s about us.”
“Us. Oh, brother! What about us? Don’t answer. I’m afraid to ask at this time of night. Can’t we please talk later?” he pleaded.
“No.”
He pulled the sheet up across his chest, grabbed the remote and surfed. Finally, he settled on the weather channel. “OK. What have I done this time?”
“Will you turn that thing off? What I have to say is important, and you’d better wake up and listen. Get this. It’s not what you’ve done. It’s what you’re doing.” She continued to stare at him, and focused her fury into his sleep-filled black eyes. “You are having an affair and don’t you deny it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding or fantasizing. How could you ever come to that half-brained conclusion?” He turned off the TV.
“Do you want to hear it all?”
“If I didn’t, why would I ask?”
“The reason you never want me to ride in your car is because you’re driving around a woman who isn’t too careful about what she leaves behind. About a week ago you asked me to get your briefcase out of your car. I found lipstick-smeared cigarette butts, a Kleenex with lipstick blotted on it, and several hairpins. I didn’t think too much about my discovery until we, or probably you, got several calls – at least three. Each time I answered, the woman who was calling hung up. I know it was a woman because callerID showed me her name and phone number. A Ms. Autry for your information. A Mary Autry to be exact. I called the number, and she, or a female, answered. I hung up immediately.
“Sometime later you said you had a meeting at the office and that you’d be home late. When I called there to tell you that Bill Martin needed to talk to you to cancel your trip the next morning, no one knew where you were. I insisted that you were in the office somewhere, but the security man said, ‘No ma’am. I’ve just made my rounds, and there’s no one here. Any place.’ Then you came home. You smelled like a French whore from the perfume smeared all over you. Like tonight you went straight to bed, didn’t say a word to me, not a routine good night kiss, and faked going to sleep. What more do I need to conclude that you’re having an affair?”
Jim dropped the sheet to his waist, ran his fingers through his thinning hair, coughed and grunted, “OK. You’re such a great detective, I’ll let you in on my affair. Let’s go back to our twentieth anniversary. Remember, we sat on the same beach in Carmel as the one in the movie. We were happy as clams and pleased as punch with each other. After we finished our glass of wine, you, too, hugged me. Remember what you said next?” Ann twisted her head sidewise so violently her hair covered one side of her face.
“To refresh your memory, you said, ‘Jim, I know you’re sorry you’re an orphan, but I couldn’t share you with another woman, even a mother. You’re all mine, and I love it.’ I didn’t respond; you’d struck a note. I don’t think there’s an orphan in the world who doesn’t at some time wonder who their parents were, and what circumstances caused them to give up their baby for adoption. Plus, I would like to know my parents’ medical history, my DNA.” Ann’s face lost some of its rage; her eyelashes flickered.
“After we got home, I got on the Net and started a search for my parents. How many times did you accuse me of looking at computer porno sites? Many. I wasn’t. I was on a quest, and I wasn’t going to let you intimidate me before I finished it – and it took time, a whole lot of time. My adoptive parents were a big help, gave me whatever info they had. Finally, I struck pay dirt. I found my mother. I think my dad is dead, but my mother lives about ten miles from us. I called her, told her who I thought she was and waited for an answer. At first she denied everything, but when I gave her the details I’d discovered about my birth, she broke into tears and confessed that I must be right.
“She begged me not to call again, but said she’d meet me in the park near my office, and then we could go someplace to talk. She must have called me ten times, obviously here at home and at the office to try to get out of our meeting.
“I prevailed. After the park, we drove to a fast food restaurant on the other side of town and had what is called a dinner. She smokes like a chimney. It was her stuff you found in the car and her smelly perfume. I don’t want to go into the circumstances surrounding her decision to give me up for adoption now. They aren’t relevant to the issue of your idea that I’m having an affair.” A tinge of righteous anger suffused Jack’s voice, but he was also aware that this scene would not have occurred had he not been so secretive.
“I’m not, nor will I ever, have an affair. And you needn’t worry about having to share me with her, if that’s still your wish. She wants to keep my birth a secret. She’s married, has three children a little younger than I, and has no desire to broadcast to the world, to her husband and family, what she considers a mistake. So there. That’s the story, believe it or not.”
Ann crawled onto the bed next to him, let the sack nightgown fall, and put her arms around him. After a moment, she said in a faint voice, “Thank God. I love you so much. I’ve been nearly crazy thinking of a life separate from you. And I have you all to my own, too.”
“Yes, I guess you do. But think about this. If you hold a bird in your hand, and you hold it tight, squeeze it, it will struggle to get away. But if you hold it in the palm of your hand with your fingers open, it will sit there and sing to your heart’s content.” He turned over, pulled the covers up, and said, “Good night, Ann. Don’t forget, our anniversary is next week.”