The daily digest of Twin Cities culture | Secrets of the City

He rolled up in the late afternoon twilight of January.  He was not expecting to see her, not here at what had been her parent's house, but there she was at the front windows, tall and lanky, looking out as though waiting for someone, for him perhaps, he could only dream.  
It had been nostalgia that had brought him here, nothing more he assured himself.  He just thought to pass the time with a quick tour of his hometown would beat sitting out his cancelled flight in a hotel room all evening.  He picked up a rental car at the airport and cruised the sights of his youth, his boyhood home, his grade school, his church, and the college square where they had met 35 years ago on a day much like today with the clouds hanging low and the snow swirling across the frozen sidewalks.  He stood in the square for a while taking in the memories, then walked back to his car.
He drove south to Highland where he picked up the Parkway west through Minneapolis.  It was the same slow, winding, romantic route he always drove when they were on a date and he was bringing her home to this very house.
She stood now with her arms crossed and her weight mostly on one leg in a pose he knew well.  Part of him wanted to get out of the car and go to her door while an inner voice implored, Leave the past in the past!  But he couldn't resist.  He turned out the lights and started up her front walk.  As he approached, she tilted her head, then broke into smile and ran to the door.
"Well, look whose back!"
"Molly," he said delighted.  "I wasn't sure you'd recognize me."
"What are you talking about?  You look the same," but it was she who hadn't changed.  The clarity of her hazel eyes, the rose in her cheek, the naturally curly hair, still a deep chestnut and gracing her shoulders just as it had all those years ago.  She wore a white angora sweater dress that followed her every youthful curve, and as she opened her arms to him, the scent of Aliage carried him back to moments in time he'd nearly forgotten.
"Well?  Are you coming in, or are you trying to heat the outdoors?"
He laughed.  It was an expression her father had used to scold them whenever they lingered on the front stoop and she held the storm door open for one more kiss goodnight.
"I was surprised to see you at the window - I mean, that you're still living here."
"Well, of course, John.  Where else would I live?"
"I just thought - it doesn't matter.  You look fabulous."
"Thank you.  So do you.  Here, give me your coat.  I'll make us a drink."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!  Get in here."
He stepped into the living room and into another time.  There was the same mahogany coffee table between the same arm chairs in front of the same long, overstuffed couch, although each had clearly been reupholstered, but in a fabric nearly identical to what he remembered.  There was the same black rotary dial telephone resting on the end table and beside it, the same photo of her parents and her five brothers surrounding her, another of their childhood cocker spaniel and the last photo taken of her second oldest brother dressed in fatigues, clowning around on the beach near Da Nang.  The draperies and the beige carpeting, like the couch and chairs, had been redone in the same colors and fabrics of the past.  Even the ashtrays and the porcelain vase were just as they had been, jarring his memory at every turn, all of it exactly the same except for the photo of a man about his age standing beside a young woman.  He took them to be her husband and daughter.
"Well, go in," she said returning with the drinks.  "Sit down."
"What's this?"
"Chivas."
"But I don't drink scotch."
    "Of course you do," she scoffed.  "It's your favorite," and she was so lovely, he let it be.
    She sat down beside him on the couch and raised her glass.
    "Welcome home."
    "Thank you, Molly.  What a kind way of putting it."
    "Well, I've missed you."
    "You have?"
    "Yes.  Haven't you missed me?"
    "I suppose I have.  Yes."
    She leaned into him slightly and closed her eyes.  It was a short, sweet kiss, but there was a sense of place to it as though they had been transported across the years to one of those winter nights, to this very couch, with the late show playing in the background.  She touched his forearm and pushed back a little, ending it, then fanned herself with her hand.
    "Whew."
    "Yes," he blinked.
    "Don't look at me, Sweeter.  You're the one who taught me how to kiss."
    "Sweeter?"
    "Don't you remember how I used to say how sweet you were and you'd say, no, you're sweeter and then we'd battle Sweeter, Sweeter, Sweeter?"
    "That's right!  You have a remarkable memory, you know it?"
    "Thanks, but everyone else seems to be losing theirs and I'm getting damn tired defending every little thing that happened in my life."
    "I know exactly what you mean.  I get so frustrated trying to set people straight especially with stuff that just happened, and when they suddenly get it -"
    "The light goes on."
    "Yeah, and then they're all apologetic."
    "I hate that, don't you?  It's so patronizing.  Or after finally agreeing with you that it did happen, they minimize it, like, 'Yeah, so?  It wasn't that big a deal.'"
    "I know.  It's as if they don't care about the past and that's so crazy to me.  I mean, without our past, who are we?"
    "Exactly."
    "But they all insist we live in the present.  You see to me the past is ... the past is beautiful.  The past is long lazy Saturday afternoons in summer without a care in the world and crisp fall days strolling along the river, young at heart and newly in love."
    "The past is us," she offered.
"Yes," he paused.  "The past is us!"
    "But so is the present, John, right here, right now."
    "To you," he said.
    "To us."
    "To us," and she drank her glass to the bottom.  "Would you like another?"
    "Really?  OK."
    As she walked out, he reached over to turn on a lamp, then crossed the room to turn on another.  On his way back to the couch, he stepped into the sunroom.  There against the common wall stood the same spinet piano on which her long, agile fingers unveiled the mysteries of Edvard Greig.  He wondered if she still played and if so, would she play again for him.
    "John?  Oh there you are.  For a moment I thought you'd left."
    "Why would I leave?"
    "Because you're a man," she said plainly, "and that's what men do.  They leave."
    "Well, I -"
    "Just come back to me here on the couch and tell me about New York.  Is the park still there?"
"Yes, the park is still there."
"Good.  That's the best part."
"And what would you say is the worst?"
"The traffic.  Ugh."
"Yeah, I'm sure it's a mess today with that big snowstorm all up and down the eastern seaboard."
"In New York?"
"Hm mm.  They had to close the airports."
"Well you were lucky to get out then."
"What do you mean?"
"From New York."
"No, I was in San Francisco."
"But I thought - I'm sorry," she said.  "With all this coming and going, I get confused sometimes.  Tell me I'm not losing my mind, John," and she rested her head on his shoulder.
"You're as sharp as a tack, Mol."
"Mol" she said fondly.  "No one's called me that since - since you.  Boy that takes me back.  Hey!  Wait here.  I've got something I want you to see," and she ran up the stairs.
When she returned, she was wearing a heart-shaped locket around her neck.  "Remember this?" she said, turning it her hand, the gold gleaming, the small ruby and diamond side-by-side sparkling in the lamplight.
"I don't believe it.  You still have that little locket I gave you."
"Well, of course, John.  It's a part of me, just like you are."
"But I would have thought you'd thrown it away years ago."
"You mean like you threw me away?"
He looked at her, startled.
"I'm sorry, Molly, I -"
"Why did you stop writing to me, anyway?"
"I didn't stop.  You wrote and told me it was over."
"No, that was after you quit writing.  What happened out there in law school, John?  You promised you'd come back for me and I waited."
He looked away.  
"I guess my father was right then.  When it was obvious you weren't coming back, he sat me down, right in that chair and told me you probably decided you needed a woman with a 'pedigree.'  Yes, that was the word he used.  'Someone who could help you take your place in the glamorous east with its sophisticated ways and its moneyed society.'  Those were his exact words.  I tried to put them out of my mind, but they kept coming back to me so many times in the days and weeks after that, that they got burned into my memory.  Of course I argued with him that you could never be that shallow, but he -"
"I'm sorry, Molly, I didn't plan on breaking any promises, I just ..."
"You know, as hard as it was hearing him say that, that's not what broke my heart, John.  It's that you didn't know yourself well enough to realize that my plain, simple love was the best thing that would ever happen to you.  That's what hurt.  That you refused to listen to your own heart and because of that, you sold me short."
He cringed at the truth of it.  With a few declarative sentences, she'd summarized the emptiness that had gnawed at him for much of his adult life.  He searched for the right words, but at last said nothing.  He stared at the floor with his head in his hands.  
She took a big swallow from her glass, then reached out and stroked his back.
"It's OK, Sweeter," she said.  "You're still the love of my life and we're together now, so what does it matter?"  She propped up his chin, looked at him mischievously and murmured, "Hey?  Remember Lake Harriet, your father's Caprice?"
"Molly," he blushed.
"You're not embarrassed."
"I didn't know you still thought about that."
"How could I not," she flirted.  "Kiss me again."
"Really, Molly, I don't think we should be -" but her lips were already on his, her mouth warm and luscious just as he remembered, full of passion, desperate and fragile.  This time he was the one to break it off.
"You know I really hate it when you push me away like that, John."
"But - I wanted to ask about your family."  He gestured toward one of the photos.  "Is this your daughter?"
She pulled away.
"Molly," he said, picking up the frame.  "This is your daughter, isn't it?"
"Yes, of course."
"And how old is she?"
"Thirty-one," she said, folding her arms.
"And this is your husband?  What's his name?"
"His name is 'John,' John," she said impatiently.
"Hmm.  Couldn't give up on a great name, huh?" but she just shook her head and moved away from him.
They sat in silence at opposite ends of the couch, neither of them drinking their drinks, just staring, motionless.
"Maybe I should be going," he sighed.  When she didn't respond, he stood up and walked to the closet.  "It's been great seeing you," he said, reaching for his coat, "and thank you for the scotch."
"You're leaving me again, aren't you, without even saying Goodbye."  She covered her face with her hands.
"Molly -"
"What were you thinking coming here?  You knew the power you had over me, that this would break my heart all over again, but you came here anyway."
He walked back to the couch and rested his hand on her shoulder.
"Don't touch me," she recoiled.  "Don't you ever touch me again, you hear?  All I wanted was to love you, to spend my life with you and all you've ever done is leave."
"Molly, I -"
"Do you still love me?"
"What?"
"It's a simple question, John, and you're a smart man.  I don't need to explain it."
"I haven't thought about it.  Not in a long time."
"Bullshit.  Do you?"
"I don't know."
And she broke down, wrapping her arms around her stomach and bending over.
"Molly, please don't cry."
He sat down beside her and put his arm around her, holding her gently.  He had indeed missed her so, the warmth of her affection, the feel of her frame in his arms, the longing that had been in her eyes for him right from the start.  There had been other women, of course, even a wife once who had in fact come with a pedigree, but none like her.  She had been his first love, yes, but more, she was his soul mate.  He thought there would be others, but there would never be a love so perfect for him as hers and having had that once, knowing that such a thing could exist in his life, made the emptiness of living without it all the more acute.  Still, in this moment - maybe.  Maybe he could step back 35 years and somehow win her back.
She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked up at him.  He set down his drink, turned and kissed her squarely on the lips.
"Say you love me, John.  Say the words."
"My, God," he said to himself as much as to her, "I've never stopped loving you."
Then he felt himself melting into her, a sensation he hadn't known before her or since.  She unbuttoned the top of her dress and as she had done when they were young, guided his hand to her heart.  The scotch racing through his veins, the fragrance of her skin, the pure lust that had overwhelmed them so many years ago was here again, unchanged, uncompromised, uninhibited.
"Make love to me, Sweeter," she begged.  "Make love to me like we're back at Lake Harriet," and they would have made love, he was sure of it, if not for the goddamn phone.
"Let it ring," she implored him, then on the third ring, "Oh, for God's sake, answer the damn thing."  
"Me?"
"Yes.  You're the man.  Act angry.  It's probably somebody doing a survey and they won't dare keep a man on the line after he yells 'No' into the phone."
"But what should I say?"
"Just answer it," she said, sitting up.
He fumbled with the receiver, held it to his ear and announced, "Harrington residence."
"Harrington res - ?  Who is this?"
"Who is this?"
"Oh, God," the caller moaned.  "This is John Chatham."
"John Chat - from St. Thomas College?" and in a flash he recognized the photograph on the end table.
"Yes."
"John, this is John Leahy."
"John.  What are you doing there?"
"My connecting flight to New York got cancelled because of a blizzard."
"Yeah, I know.  I'm out here in it.  They kept us on the tarmac for three hours, cell phones wouldn't work, total nightmare.  But what are you doing in my house?"
"Nothing," he said straightening up.  "I just decided to rent a car to pass the time and see some of the old sights, that's all.  When I got to Molly's parent's place, I found her standing at the front window looking sort of ... well, she seemed lost, John."
"She's not well.  She has early dementia ... John?  Are you still there?"
"Oh," he exhaled, looking over at her.
"We bought her folks' house a few months back and moved in.  I've tried to replicate the furniture and the decorating as best I could.  The doctors said any familiarity I could create would help slow the disease."
"I'm so sorry."
"Who are you talking to?" she demanded.
"Your husband.  Here," he said, trying to hand her the phone.
"You are my husband, John."
"What's going on?"
"She seems to think that I'm you, you know, both of us with the same name and all."
"Oh, Jesus.  They said something like this might happen, that she could get disoriented if I were gone too long.  Dammit! - and she was doing so well."
"What can I do, John?"
"If you could stay with her until our daughter can get over there, that'd be a huge help."
"Absolutely."
"I'm so relieved that it's you who's with her, John.  You were always such an upstanding guy.  I'd hate to think what might have happened if just anyone had seen her at the window."
"I'll take care of her.  Don't worry."
"I'll make it up to you."
"No need to.  Did you want to talk to her?"
"No.  When she's like this, it would just confuse her more.  Best thing, just play along with her.  I should call our daughter now."
When he turned back to Molly, she was sitting with her arms folded and her head turned, refusing to make eye contact with him.
"Your daughter'll be here in a while, Molly."
"What daughter, John?  How many times do we have to go over this?  We don't have a daughter.  You wouldn't give me children.  You always had to come first, your needs, your career, your new car, your golf membership, you!"
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
He slumped into one of the arm chairs, his body limp, his heart sinking.  Except for the drone of rush hour traffic half a block away, they sat in silence.  When her daughter came in the front door, there was no mistaking her, the fluid motion of her body, that familiar tilt of the head, the take-charge attitude.
"I'm Erin, Mr. Leahy.  Thank you for staying.  Mother, how are you doing?  Are you feeling OK?"
He walked toward the front door, then hesitated, looking back.
"It's OK," Erin said.  "We go through this every now and then.  It's not so hurtful anymore.  She'll come back out of it in a little while.  My father was so glad that it was you she let in and not someone who might have taken advantage of her.  Thank God.  You go on now.  Really.  It's best."
"Goodbye, Molly," he said, softly.  "Molly?" but she had turned her back to him.
He stepped out into the frigid night, the crunch of packed snow underfoot.  He drove slowly through the streets of her neighborhood.  So little had changed over the years, the big houses and the huge trees, still the same, but there was something gone from it all.  Why, indeed, had he come here, except to relive some ancient memory and now even the sweetness of that had been destroyed, chased off by his own futile curiosity.
He headed west and north past the little pizza place they went to all the time then on to Lake Harriet Parkway.  When he reached the wayside, he slowed the car to a full stop and cursed the night that could never be again.  The moon, ever so clear in the artic air, shone down through the naked branches of the trees.  He let the car drift forward, then brought it up to speed.  He just thought there would be others.  He was too young to know that true love comes but once a lifetime.

Photo Credit: Ann Gordon, used under Creative Commons license