#83 W, X, Y and Z

County Jail
St. Petersburg, Florida

Dear W,
I’m so sorry that you are in your current circumstances, that life has let you down so, that what could and should be is not, that you are in trouble, that the past is haunting you, that you have no one to talk to, that you cry yourself to sleep.

It’s awful, isn’t it, that life hands you a wallop of misery just as you are finally learning how to live, how to be, have garnered a few secrets to the contented, efficient life? Only to be brought down by circumstances, it’s terrible isn’t it, to feel so much animosity toward innocent people all because of your own dumb luck?

I’m so sorry dear, you are one of my favorite people in the world, I have always looked up to you. I thought you may be a genius, maybe you are. Maybe that is why you are so troubled, you are not made for this mean world, you are the best in the world. Life for you should be sweet, you have all the attributes--looks, taste, brains, sense of humor, honesty, oh I know you say you’ve lost your sense of humor but you can’t lose it it’s just on a back burner somewhere because you do not find your present predicament all that amusing but don’t worry, it will come back to you. Perhaps you should practice laughing; watch some comedy on TV. You say you are physically unable to smile and that is not good you’ve a nice smile, everyone says so, don’t let those facial muscles turn into a permanent frown, practice smiling in the dark, at night when you are unhappy, alone, so that when all this is over, you will not have lost the ability as you say you have but I don’t believe it for a minute. You’ve always been the one who sees the absurdity in situations and it would be a shame to lose that trait as its not as prevalent as you think--most everyone taking their life and themselves oh so seriously. I’m sorry if that is the case with you presently, as you are a source of fun and have always made others laugh, pointing out all the funny little quirks of fate, of personalities, even those dire newspaper stories meant to instill fear left you pondering the irrationality of events and people, you could see the insanity for what it was and I’ve always valued that in you, I could express my fears over the state of the world and you would lessen them by just the right words, an outlook original and fresh. Journalism is truly your calling.

You say your life is nothing more than a corrupted file and you even go so far as to say that you might have to be deleted or if you cannot be deleted as some files cannot, your entire operating system might have to be purged and either rebuilt or recycled. I don’t know quite what you mean by this analogy--or is it a metaphor? But purging, deleting, recycling are not options for you dear, you are too fine and if your life is corrupted, well I can’t believe that. No, you are just having a phase of awfulness but if you were to really look at your problems in detail you would realize a) they’re unimportant in and of themselves, b) they are temporary, c) time heals all lousy situations, d) they are nothing in the long life you are sure to lead. I know you may not want to hear it, but look deeply into the path you have chosen; acknowledge where you chose wrong.

You say you have taken a look and know you made some wrong moves but that all the options were wrong. When you have only bad options there is no way around bad results. Yes, I agree with you there, it is a question of degrees, which option will be the least uncomfortable, which will allow you some leeway to leverage yourself, yes I agree, you had a difficult choice and you chose wrong it seems but we’ll never know will we? We can’t turn back the pages of your story and rewrite--all you can do is move the plot forward with a little bit of an idea that you choose even if you seem to be in limbo without options and I agree, you do seem to be in a bind.

It’s just that dear one, it does no good putting yourself down, judging so harshly, so what if someone irritates you, maybe they are an irritating person to begin with, yes I know you say you are the only one irritated but that doesn’t mean the irritating factors aren’t there in this person in relation to you, many people have trouble in this area, we aren’t all compatible, there are differences, human proclivities that are thorny. Don’t feel guilty for that, no one gets along with everyone and you my dear have the self-actualized persona that requires autonomy. You do not suffer fools gladly. It is who you are there is no use pretending you are an average person that can adapt to shit or even another’s way. You are a unique being in that you have taken your self into realms others are not even aware exits, we’ve always said that you of all people were not as troubled with the flotsam of the world, that you could see beyond it and not fret the small stuff as they say, you’ve always been above the trivial, the false, the misleading the vanity, that is what was so fresh about you when we first met you. “This person,” I told X, “is above the fray.”

Now I know you will say you are no longer “above” anything. That you are knee deep in shit but that cannot be accurate because you cannot sink that low or if you have, you will soon rise up to normal levels where shit cannot attach itself, I have faith in that as I haven’t in other things, that you will rise again, don’t worry doll, you are too good to stay mired in shit or corrupted beyond repair. You just need to breathe and reboot, please do not consider yourself finished it is not healthy and no one believes it anyway. You have fallen before, X always says that you fall as no one else does but cannot remain low for long, you have too many gifts and might possibly be a genius, don’t shirk that label, no one knows for sure who is a genius anymore. Fashion designers, interior decorators and television producers regularly receive the label, I know the word has been watered down to the point of meaninglessness, so you may not be comfortable with the label, what you are is, nevertheless, what you are and that remains, who you are intrinsically and though false winds do blow, you stand firm in the essential isness of your being, yes I know I’m getting esoteric again, X says “I go lofty” but it is my particular gift, if you will.

I don’t have any more advice because your problem is not inherent but circumstantial. That is both good and bad--good that it’s not who you are, bad that it will require resources you don’t have at present to rectify the deplorable situation you find yourself in. Jail is not anyone’s idea of a good time even if the stay is short. Eventually you will be free and yes, I know, life may never again be the same lark it appeared to be in your younger days, there will be consequences, I am sorry to say but then again, you never know where you will land or with whom, a roundabout way of saying, what the future shall be, shall be though I do not mean to make light of certain constraints you are presently facing, I’m sorry, X is sorry, we think of you, pray for you (I do, X doesn’t pray and wants me to make that clear, little Z is too young to pray) and will only reiterate, you are not a corrupted file, you just unexpectedly crashed and you have to believe someone will come along and reboot if you are unable to do it yourself. Perhaps you don’t have access to the right buttons or programs.

Take care dear, you are valuable even though you don’t see it at this time. We see it clearly. I’m sorry for your low mood, moods are like the weather; constantly in flux. We await your return and continued good cheer, your own special band that we prefer to all others. Love, X, Y, and Z

P.S. We were at a party this past weekend and everyone was asking about you. We told them you were at a retreat, out of the country, destination unknown.

P.S. S. X says he knows you are innocent, that it could not be otherwise. (He’s always been a little in love with you. I’m not jealous, don’t worry, we both love you.)

#82 LOVE SQUARED: PART II

CAROLYN

My name is Carolyn Ryder, I’m sixty-six years old and bored out of my mind. I sound like a petulant teenager. I realize that’s not the most original statement, who isn’t at times? But I’ve been blasé in my marriage for well over...well, maybe forever. James Ryder, my husband, wasn’t my first choice. I’d been jilted by someone I felt more passion for but that is a long and very old story. In any case, choice number one is no longer living but I had the satisfaction of hearing him say he’d made a mistake marrying my good friend, Sharon Adams. Some days I resolve to find myself and put an end to the lethargy that I drag around with me everywhere, on other days, I determine to be a good sport, appreciate what I have and carry on.

I am married to a good though stodgy man. We live in a airy modern condo in San Francisco that we purchased after our children moved away. We have two children, Brooke, 34, and Brandon, 36. They live on the East coast. We don’t have grandchildren yet. I think Brandon might be gay. He hasn’t broken the news to us yet but I have my suspicions. His sister, in a pique, lobbed a few hints my way.

James and I thought we would travel after retirement, take up hobbies, and enjoy our so-called golden years similar to the ads in the AARP Magazine. We have enough money, good health, live in a lively city where we are a part of the community, but for some reason, we've reached the golden years and are fresh out of inspiration. There hasn’t been an idea put forth by either one of us that will take us out of our ennui. We just move through our days, barely talking, going about our separate pursuits and once a week have dinner in the same restaurant we have been frequenting for decades, usually ordering the same thing. James might like to try something new; he often mentions places he reads about in the newspaper but I have been on a constant diet since I turned fifty-five when I started to gain weight. Mother Nature’s little joke: just when we need all the comfort we can get, food is no longer an option. So I started fanatically dieting and have never so much as looked at a dish of pasta since then.

I took the onset of middle-age hard because…well, full disclosure, I had a love affair that ended badly (not to my liking) and my self-esteem plummeted but I’m being subtle. I really should say I wanted to die, but that sounds overly dramatic. I did not think I could live without love. It seems foolish now to have been so overwrought. But just when I think I’m over it, something pops into my mind and I feel completely stranded--like I’m on high alert watching and waiting for someone to find the raft on which I’ve floated to oblivion. Not death exactly, but just a dead weight. I did not take rejection well--still have not forgiven…

Yes, I’m an unfaithful spouse. I’m not particularly bothered by it from a moral standpoint. In fact, I had planned on asking James for a divorce to marry Blake so enraptured was I, a middle-aged married woman, mother of two, an accountant at a conservative firm, and friends with most of the high-heeled women of San Francisco. I don’t mean their shoe style, but their stature. Women who worked for the City; politicians, socialites, entrepreneurs. My husband was a partner in a prominent law firm. We knew everyone, I worked on numerous campaigns, did my share of fund-raising over the years and if you saw my desk, you would see me photographed with all the players including Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. James has a picture of himself with Dick Cheney but I don’t think it trumps my Clintons.

I retired five years ago and instead of doing all that volunteer work I was slated for, I got the real estate bug after selling our home in Forest Hill and purchasing our flat on Jackson Street. I got my license and started a new career. The housing bubble was in full swing at the time and I was taken on by a friend whose agency was signing foot soldiers like the army after 9/11. This allowed me to work in a new field, keep up my contacts and social life, help a friend and make some money to supplement my pension. Who knew retirement would be so much fun? Then the market tanked, my husband has retired and is home all day and I can’t for the life of me, find inspiration for anything. Sometimes I wish I had gotten divorced. I think I would feel free to explore. As it is, I’m as slumped as the economy.

And I miss Blake. That was the name of the man I was so enamored with. I use the past tense but in truth, in is probably safe to include the present tense. He was also married and we both took it for granted that neither of us would be changing our status at any time. I don’t know why we were so fixed on staying married. Okay, that is not true. Blake was fixed on staying married. As I said, I wanted to chuck it all and move in with him. He wouldn’t. He said he loved his wife Julia and that she would be lost without him. Right! What century was he living in? I was pretty miffed when he admitted he loved his wife. That is not something you tell your mistress even if it’s true. You are supposed to pretend you are misunderstood, haven’t slept together in years and are only staying in the marriage because of the children. Blake and Julia had no children so I couldn’t put the onus on them. My children were in college or about to be. No, Blake was always brutally honest.
“I never want to deceive you, Caro,” he would say. “I have no intention of ever divorcing. I hope you understand that. I don’t think you really want to divorce either. We have the freedom to see each other whenever we want. Let’s not spoil things.”
And in truth, I didn’t really want to divorce so much as I wanted him to want me above all others. It hurt my self-esteem that he was content to be with someone else. For a while there, we went at it hot and heavy, excuse the crude cliché, and I wanted all of him and thought he should feel the same way. I was a typical woman in this regard. Once I knew his feelings, that he was content with things the way they were, I wanted to break up his marriage, as well as my own, and it became of sort of obsession. I’m admitting things I shouldn’t. I'm really at loose ends…to be looking within like this. It’s not my style.

Then there was Julia, his wife. She was at least twelve years younger than he was and at least five or six years younger than me. This sort of irritated me. The mistress is not supposed to be older than the wife. And she was attractive in her own way, I guess. I mean, she was a natural type, you know, she didn’t touch up her hair, go out of her way to be fashionable, hardly wore makeup even though she was not flawless, for God’s sake, get a clue. We did not travel in the same circle, she was more arty although I could never figure out what her real game was.

The only reason I knew much about her at all is because I made a point of checking her out when I found out she worked in a certain gallery. I do not usually visit galleries but Blake let slip once where she worked and I took a couple lunch hours and did a little gallery hopping. Never once did I see her. Finally I made note of an opening reception scheduled and attended with one of my girlfriends. There she was, in her hippie-dippy outfit, long hair wearing a sort of Victorian pendant and earring set that really looked old-fashioned. She was attractive but definitely not au courant. She did not look younger than me; some consolation. At least if I couldn’t interest Blake in leaving her, I could be satisfied that she wasn’t better looking than me.
“She’ll age badly,” said my friend Linda. “She’s too serious. She should do something with that hair. It’s foreboding.”
It was good to have a more objective opinion.

We left without looking at the art. I didn’t think I could talk to Julia if she should happen to corner us. I know nothing about art nor care and was certainly not buying anything I saw hanging in that particular show. James likes art and used to haul me and the kids to museums when we traveled. Luckily for me, the kids groaned whenever he mentioned a museum and he usually went alone. When Brooke got older she developed an interest in art and would accompany him while Brandon and I went shopping. Now that James is retired he goes to museums in the afternoon to get out of the house. Thank God for that. I really hate having him underfoot all day. Right now I haven’t got anything to do; the agency laid me off until the recession is over and the housing market rebounds. No one is putting anything on the market in this economy. James says to be patient; it will all start up again eventually. “One day you will wake up and it will all be over,” he said, “like it never happened.” Really? What does he know?

But back to Blake; he is who I want to concentrate on. He and I had a nice thing going for about three and a half years. He was handsome, yes, but it was more than that. He was exciting and he smelled divine, a combination of truffles and cloves. He owned a restaurant where the power brokers used to lunch. That was before San Francisco was inundated with new restaurants opening every week. Then, we had our favorites and patronized them. We did not restaurant hop in those days, but were loyal to one or two. It’s not like that now. Everyone is reading reviews, looking at websites and running all over the Bay Area trying to be in the know; following certain chefs from place to place. It’s rather promiscuous. James and I go to the same two or three places we have always gone to. We know the maitre d, the wine steward, the waiters. That is what I enjoy in dining out; seeing the same faces, knowing what you order will be to your liking.

I met Blake in his restaurant one day while he was acting as host. Later I learned he was the owner. I kept going back for lunch and he invited me to have a drink with him in the bar one day. I started hanging out in his place after work. I’d bring a group of friends or coworkers. This led to a few cocktails alone with him. Then a few dinners together. He had a room above the restaurant where he sometimes stayed after a late closing. In those days, he catered a lot of parties. It became our little love nest. I even decorated it. After he sold the restaurant, we took weekend trips together and once we flew to New York for a week. I think Julia was in Italy or someplace, “soaking up the culture,” he said. At that time, he showed me his house in the outer Richmond. I couldn’t believe someone with his money and pizzazz lived in such a dump. “I expected you to live in a sumptuous home,” I said sort of shocked. “To match your personality…” He said it had been his parents house and had recently caught fire from faulty wiring. He admitted Julia didn’t like it either. It was too dark. I joked that his wife set it on fire hoping to burn it to the ground and get something new. For some reason he didn’t find that funny…it was just a silly joke. I noticed after that he became more serious and less user-friendly, you could say.

So we began drifting apart. Well no, that’s not the truth either. One day he announced he had bought a new flat for Julia. He said she had finally convinced him to sell the old place and buy something modern and closer to town. She wanted walkability, a new buzz word in San Francisco real estate jargon. When I found out what they bought I was seething. Mad with jealousy, really. It was a superb renovated flat in Pacific Heights. The thought of Julia getting it soured me on Blake for some reason. Why was he buying her this extravagant home at this time? I guess some part of me always thought he would eventually leave her and we would set up housekeeping in just such a place. It was exactly the sort of home I coveted. And I was unable to forget about it either. The developer had trouble with the City over restoration and the disputes were chronicled in the newspaper every day for about a month. I was not allowed to forget Julia and Blake’s dream flat.

We faltered on for another six months and then he said we had to stop seeing each other. He said his health was not so good but didn’t go into details. I knew it was his heart, I looked at his prescriptions and googled them. Those goddamn steps up to their flat proved to be a big mistake. They didn’t kill him but they didn’t help. I blame Julia. Just because.

Our finale was staged with a lavish lunch in the Financial District. Blake presented me with a lovely gold bracelet that was engraved with a parting message. I could do nothing but weep quietly; his reason for the busy restaurant in the middle of the day. Why are men so manipulating? He knew I wouldn’t make a fool of myself in that particular restaurant. I accepted the bracelet gracefully but I was not happy; I am not happy. Past and present tense.

I put our spacious family dwelling on the market and we moved a couple blocks away from them. Unplanned, I swear, but a fact nevertheless. Blake never knew. One day I saw him walking with Julia as they passed by our building. He had aged a lot since I’d last seen him. Julia looked the same but with shorter hair. This made her look younger; like the dutiful daughter walking the old man. My husband looked young compared to him but James never had Blake’s wit or energy. I’ve never felt about James the way I felt about Blake and that is why I’m musing over old times. I’m dissatisfied, cooped up and wishing for a way to find myself again. And by that I mean, my inner woman who feels as dried up as one of those hanging ducks in the Chinese markets. The juice squeezed out.

Blake died four years ago. I went to the funeral and saw Julia in her long black dress. I didn’t introduce myself. As far as I know, she never knew about my affair with her husband. When the tears came, I left. I really wanted to look at his body up close but was hesitant. I wanted to be alone to cry and say a few words of parting, to touch him. I did no such thing. No use making a spectacle or causing suspicion at that point. But I was most definitely resentful at being denied...bereavement.

Blake is my past but I wish the present would hold some of his zip, his vigor. That is what I miss when I think of Blake. He loved to laugh and entertain people. He loved a crowd. His wife, so passive, so wallflowery, seemed a mismatch. And yet, he was devoted to her. I never quite accepted this fact. What did she have that I didn’t? I could not compete with her because we were not playing the same game. She was other-worldly and provoked me by her hold on Blake for reasons I have not ever understood. How I wished she would just blow away.

JULIA

Ryder and I spent a good deal of time together after that first dinner on Union Street. He would leave his home in the morning and be with me by eleven. We would lunch in my flat, something similar to the afternoon tea the English partake of: small cakes, tarts, scones, watercress or cucumber sandwiches and deviled eggs. James is English, born in London. His parents immigrated to the states shortly after World War II. His younger sister was killed in a bombing raid and his mother wanted nothing to do with Europe from then on. When they had a chance to leave, they left. James was only seven years old. Occasionally I detect a slight English accent and it is charming. He makes an excellent pot of tea; he orders it from a shop in Mayfair. You see we are still in present tense. Am I giving away the ending?

My husband, Blake, had a rambunctious Massachusetts accent. Blake was wildly extroverted and Ryder is quiet. I find him consoling at this time in my life. He says his wife Carolyn finds him boring. I can see that might be the case if you were married to him for forty-seven years and had run out of things to talk about. His wit does not sparkle, his opinions are measured, his bearing is conservative. But that is only the surface: He has an abiding love for painting, genuinely appreciates classical music and likes to walk all over the City, pointing out its history and development. I am never bored in his company. He does not need to fill space with his presence as so many men do. My husband was a hand-grabber, a back-slapper, a gregarious socializer. I often felt older even though I was twelve years younger. Before he had his restaurant downtown, he used to drag me to endless parties, sporting events, boating excursions and wine tastings where I always melted into the background, the perpetual wallflower. He used to laugh and say, You’d probably be content to sit on the couch and read those dang books every night if I didn’t make you come out. He was probably right. He called me his Bohemian rhapsody. His sister once referred to me as an old hippie. I was offended: I wasn’t old nor had I ever been a hippie. The best thing about Blake was his love of music, all different kinds. He liked opera and symphonic music as well as Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett.

Once he opened the restaurant, he had a playing field every night and we no longer had to socialize at all. Everyone came to him. He worked long hours and I saw less of him than before and spent more time alone. I was forlorn in the dark flat so I volunteered in a museum and that was the start of my career in art. Eventually I worked for a small gallery, then another small gallery and then a major gallery. It did not happen overnight; it took quite a few years to find my place and learn the ropes of selling a product that is expensive and not necessarily one’s daily bread. I had to learn about investment quality whereas before my attention was strictly for aesthetics. My best years were those spent selling aesthetic value to those looking to invest. It gets tricky but if the quality is not there, it is no investment; it will eventually fall flat. I never tried to fool anyone. So many artists had their day, made a splash but there wasn’t enough there for the long haul. I won’t name names.

Speaking of names, there is one name that still eludes me. My husband had a mistress though details are scant. She may not have been the only one for all I know. I never presented him with my evidence, did not care to disturb the tranquility that was necessary after he developed a heart condition. One day he asked me to sort through some old papers; he was looking for a missing invoice that he needed for the IRS who audited him once again the year before he died. While searching for the missing invoice I came across another invoice, from a jewelry store that is no longer in business. It was for a gold bracelet, engraved with the words, To lovely C. for our golden moments. B. There is was. Not to be denied. But I did. It was too late for confrontations and I hadn’t the heart for it anyway: my darling husband was fading. I never spoke of this to anyone until one day I mentioned it to Ryder. He said something about his wife possibly having an affair, but that he never confronted her nor sought any details. He asked me if I thought this was the normal way a man would act in such a circumstance. I told him about finding the invoice for the bracelet and not letting on. His reply was, “We are alike in so many ways, Julia. How did I live without you?”

Ryder called me early on a sunny, vibrant Thursday that sizzled with possibility. I was going to suggest that we go out somewhere when he phoned.
“Julia, do you want to meet me in the Fillmore this afternoon? I’ve got an errand to run and we might as well have lunch.”
“I’d love to. The usual place?”
“I’ll see you there around one-thirty.”

I meandered around Fillmore Street and bought a pair of shoes. It had been some time since I’d treated myself to anything. I scraped the money together for the roof repairs and with that worry banished, I felt like celebrating. Spring was in the air and I had been contacted by a former client in L.A. who wanted to sell a few pieces in his collection and I happened to know the DeYoung might be interested in them. This felt like the start of my career as an independent dealer. The first step after the heavy blanket had been lifted from the atmosphere and we were once again free to think of things besides depleted stock portfolios, sinking home prices and the questionable recovery. Maybe I would recover my own initiative and fly after all.

We were seated at a table in a corner, Ryder looking over the wine list. Ever since that first day in the cab when he introduced himself as Ryder, I stuck with that name. He often referred to himself by his last name. He said his wife calls him James so he prefers that I call him Ryder.
“You don’t know how glad I am to have the roof repair behind me,” I said. The roof itself is not actually repaired but I’ve handed over the money and can now be relieved of the burden. But it leaves me pretty depleted.”
“Would you like to borrow some money, Julia?”
“No, no, no…that’s not what I meant. I’m okay.”
“If you ever need anything, just ask.”
“Thank you, dear. I would not like to borrow money from you.”
“Well then, just ask to have it.”
“And you will fork it over, like your last bite of cheesecake?”
“I will give you whatever you need or want. Just so you know that.”
“Thank you, my dear. So, what brings you out today?”
“Oh, I had to see my doctor.”
“Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“No. Nothing so far.”
“That’s a relief.
“What would you like to order?”
“Salad Nicoise, white wine, no bread.”
“Not dieting, I hope?”
“Just a light lunch for me today.”
“That’s what I’ll have too.”

We were merrily munching our salads commenting on how much longer it took to eat salad than pasta. “My jaw is tried of crunching up those vegetables,” I said.
“Gives us time to savor the atmosphere and drink more wine,” he said.
We were on our third glass when I noticed a woman sitting across the restaurant looking my way. She was staring at me and I wondered if I should know her from somewhere. She seemed vaguely familiar but it did not come to me so I forgot about her and kept on grazing in my salad bowl, the size of a basketball.

As the woman was preparing to leave, putting on lipstick, signing the bill, she kept an eye on our table. She was not visible to Ryder so I didn’t mention that someone was staring at me. I thought maybe she had been a former client in the gallery and hoped I wouldn’t be put in the awkward position of speaking to her, not knowing her name. As she was coming our way, she looked at me but kept on walking. That is until she did a double take, turned back, having recognized her own husband.
“James. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” she sputtered.
“Just having a little lunch. How about you?” What finesse he displayed. He was a marvel of sanguinity.
“Lunching, obviously,” she said in a terse voice making an effort at control
“Carolyn, this is Mrs. Durham. Julia Durham. Julia, this is my wife Carolyn.”
“How do you do,” I said. That was all I could get out. I sounded cold when I should have, for appearance's sake, projected a friendly attitude. I was downright suspicious acting.
“Nice to meet you,” she said. “ I’ll see you at home James. Enjoy your lunch.” The sarcasm heavy with innuendo and antagonism almost froze my blood.
Off she went, her friend gaping as they trotted out on their high heels. James looked a little red in the face but regained his composure and only met my eyes with a bemused look.
“Don’t worry Julia. I’m actually glad she saw us. I very much enjoyed the look of shock on her face. She underestimates me. For the past two years she hasn’t said a word to me about my whereabouts. Every day I get up, take a cup of coffee and leave. Every day she ignores me, focuses on her own day, relieved to have me out of the house. Hasn’t she ever wondered where I go? Do I just walk the streets all day? She has never displayed the slightest curiosity. It’s insulting, really.”
He paid the bill and we walked to my place. He didn’t mention her again. I said, “She’s an attractive woman, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I believe she is considered so,” was his curt reply.
“Ryder, you are going to be in a heaping pile of trouble tonight?”
“I don’t see how I can be. I am my own man. As she is her own woman.”
“But she looked really upset. And confused. I felt sorry for her, with that friend pretending outrage behind a barely concealed smirk.”
“Good. Let her be confused. Let’s take a nap in your comfortably plush bed for the rest of the afternoon and listen to Vivaldi. I don’t want to go home just yet.”

Ryder was especially passionate that afternoon during our nap. He wanted to devour me and it felt delicious. It was six before we got up. I made us a cup of tea and he reluctantly left. Afterward I tried to imagine what would happen when he arrived home. I could not stop thinking of the look on Carolyn’s face. She would not be ignoring his whereabouts now, Ryder would have some explaining to do. Did I mention that he was holding my hand at the table when she spotted him? Poor Ryder. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where I knew her from. Somewhere in the past, I’d encountered her.

For the record, she was more than attractive; she looked a little like Jane Fonda. She wore perfectly tailored slacks with high heels, an ivory silk blouse with a gray cashmere sweater draped around her neck. Her makeup was applied with professional artistry, her hair was expertly highlighted and cut. Her jewelry was gold but subtle. She had that polished, pulled-together look I'd always hoped to emulate but could never quite pull off. I felt like a rag doll in her presence. Somehow I never pictured Ryder with a glamorous wife.

I spent the night wondering if Ryder would give me up now. We were in love but what did that mean? We never talked of the future. We played like children without fear of consequences. What were we thinking? What did I want? I found no answers that night. I thought I might need some distance and began planning a trip. Then felt cowardly, running away from trouble.

JAMES

It was bound to happen, I suppose. San Francisco is a small city. Yes, I was a little rattled at seeing my wife in the restaurant. I kept cool for Julia’s sake. It was unfortunate that I was holding her hand or I could easily explain it away as an old colleague, a member of my wine appreciation group, someone from my accountant’s office. Now I would have some accounting of another kind when I got home. I was sorry Carolyn had to see us in that unexpected way. She would hate most that the friend was witness to the spectacle of her husband canoodling with a woman in public in the afternoon without a care in the world. She would be unforgiving about that.

I entered our flat with a feeling of weariness. The day had been long and Julia and I didn’t really have a proper nap. For some reason, I had to make her aware of my ardor. It was apprehension I felt. Not because of Carolyn, but fear Julia would want to call things off now that we were outed, as they say. I would have rather stayed at Julia’s and made a simple dinner, an omelet or a steak sandwich. Julia was a good cook and had a lot of professional equipment from her husband’s restaurant. She had a Italian espresso machine and the sort of high-end cookware you find in Europe. It was a pleasure to sit on a stool and watch her prepare meals. At these times I felt I was waking from a deep sleep wondering why I had slept so long moving about in a life not especially fortifying.

But return home I did. What else could I do? Carolyn was pacing the living room when I entered.
“So he deigns to return to his own home after an afternoon of God only knows what. James, really. You could have given me some kind of warning?”
“What would you have said if I had?”
“Any number of things but at least Jan wouldn’t have had to witness my humiliation. Thank you. It’s all over town by this time. Where may I ask did you meet Mrs. Durham? How long have you two known each other?”
“I met her at the museum two years ago, approximately. It was right after I retired and you banished me from our kingdom on a rainy day. We happened to meet in the café and shared a taxi home.”
“I see. And you never knew her before that?”
“No, why would I?”
“No reason. And I suppose you have been spending your days in her flat, less than two blocks from here. All this time I thought you went to the Mechanics Institute Library every day, playing chess, writing your memoirs. Instead you were creating memories.”
“You have never, by the way, asked where I spend my days. A complete lack of curiosity in a wife, wouldn’t you say? And by the way, how do you know where Mrs. Durham lives? You weren’t having me followed now were you, Carolyn?”
Carolyn had to stall before answering that question. How could she explain how she knew where Julia lived? She let down her guard and now would have to dissemble like mad.
“I’ve seen her around the neighborhood. I’m in real estate; I know something about the neighborhood. I remember when her building went co-op after that big remodel. All the hassles the City gave the builders over restoration and codes. It was always in the paper at that time.”
“Yes but how do you know Mrs. Durham lives there?”
“I see her around. She walks past our building…little did I know what she was up to.”
“She is not up to anything, Carolyn. She has been keeping me company, has been a good friend since I retired. You did not want the position, had better things to do with your time than sit around with me…I think that’s what you said. I was underfoot. In your way.”
“Look James, I’m not going to play word games with you. What do you plan on doing?”
“Doing?
“Yes James, doing. As in carrying on with one woman while married to another. Usually people do something when it comes to light. You end things with her, you separate from the wife, you take a trip together and let the other thing fall off…I mean, James, come on.”
“I should think you might have something to say about this doing, as you put it. What would you like to do, Carolyn?”
“I’d like to murder that detestable woman! Her serenity, her stupid long trailing skirts as if she’s about to step into her carriage, her conceit!” Her voice was shrill, her hands were flapping about the air looking for something to swat.
“Come now Carolyn, she’s not that much of a threat to you. Why the drama? I can’t believe a three-minute encounter filled you with such bile. Are you jealous? I must say I find that a little difficult to swallow.”

Carolyn did not, for once, have an answer. She bit her lip but I could tell she didn’t have it in her to shed tears. Our marriage, I think I explained, was not one of passion and she would have had to do some acting to make me believe she was wretched on my account. As I predicted, she was mad at being taken unawares in her friend’s company. But even in this regard, she was mildly indifferent. Something was bothering her that went beyond that afternoon‘s encounter but Carolyn would not give up any information easily. Secretive had always been her formula. After her outburst, she left the room, said she had a headache and ordered me to sleep in the spare room. Her last words were, “…and this Mrs. Durham, Julia, is she really so wonderful as all that? What do men see in her?”

I didn’t know what men she was referring to. I sat on the sofa until three in the morning. I thought of our life together, our children. Then I thought of Julia and how much she meant to me. Would I, could I, propose to her? Would she accept? Could I leave Carolyn? For some reason none of the answers came. When you are old, things that might have been paramount in younger years, lose their impact. In truth, I did not believe Julia wanted to change her life to accommodate me. Or would she? I fell asleep on the couch and woke up early with Carolyn standing over me.
“I’d still like to know what you plan on doing, James. Think about it. I’d like to discuss our future but be forewarned: never mention that woman to me again.”
She slammed the door and I was left with my rambling, incoherent thinking, unable to comprehend why I had to do anything but vaguely excited at the prospect.

CAROLYN

Oh, how much bile there was within me. James was right about that. I could not stand the thought of that woman once again showing up in my life. Why? Why was I being tormented again by Julia Durham? I could not bear thinking of her. Seeing her sitting in that restaurant with my husband gazing rapturously into her eyes made me nauseated. Who was this woman sent to torment me forever; never to be done with her? I really did not know quite how much animosity toward her I still carried around. I tried to analyze it rationally: if James had been with another woman, would I have felt so much rancor? I tried to picture another woman sitting across from him and I couldn’t. James is not what you would call a ladies’ man. He’s bumbling, unimaginative, dull. How it God’s name did he introduce himself to Julia? How did she take an interest in him after a dynamic husband like Blake? He’s an old man, for heaven’s sake. She’s no ingénue but she still has that youthful appearance that makes me want to throttle her. She doesn’t even dye her bloody awful gray hair and still she has the air of someone who wakes up everyday with something to sing about. How I despise her! Yes, I disliked her intensely when Blake was alive, I had reasons, I think I mentioned them. But now this! Why is she poaching on my territory again? I could not sleep all night thinking these terrible thoughts and then I had to consider what I would do if James decides he wants to separate. Would he dare? I suppose he would if Julia wanted it. Doesn’t she always get what she wants? Would she want James? I don’t know her well enough. What I do know is not objective; a vile twisted jealousy. I despise that woman, that is all I keep thinking. Why? Because her husband would not leave her for me. I thought I was over it. I thought the past was dead. Now I’m filled with the same rage I once suffered. Would James leave me for her? Would my kids have to know her, have her in their lives? Oh, such intolerable circumstances, can I be forced to endure them? I have to prevent James from leaving, if only to spite Julia. I have to stop that wretched woman from taking any more from me than she already has. I will thwart her finally. It’s too late for Blake but I will stop her from taking James from me somehow. I thought I wanted to leave James and I might have, but I will not let Julia take from me again. I have do something…to stop her. Thank God I kept that bottle of sleeping pills. I’ve got to sleep and forget.

JAMES

I’m going to level with you upfront: No, Carolyn did not take too many sleeping pills and wind up in the hospital or the morgue. Nor did she “murder that woman” or play out any other jealous, destructive scenarios that a writer of fiction might have us end with. It's tempting to add some real conflict at this point but I’m staying with reality as I write this. It's not exciting and I'm sorry if you've read this far only to be let down with events that lack dramatic appeal.

Carolyn, after the incident in the restaurant, remained taciturn and petulant. She slammed doors, threw things, virulently attacked me in conversations with our children. She berated me, accused me of being unable to take care of things around the house like a clogged drain, a jammed window. She implied I was getting too old to be useful and hoped she wouldn’t be stuck with an old man, an invalid just as she’s re-launching her career. I would listen to her on the phone and then call Brooke and Brandon to reassure them I was not about to be committed to a nursing home. They didn’t have to worry about their old Dad yet. “Your mother is a little testy these days. It’s between us so don’t get involved if you can help it,” I said to my daughter.
“Why is she so upset, Dad?”
“She wants to go back to work and the real estate market is in the doldrums.”
“So she’s taking it out on you, huh?”
“There are other things…between us. They’ll work themselves out eventually.”

But would they? Julia was in Europe for three weeks so time was without structure once again. I tried to stay out of Carolyn’s way as much as possible. She was either eerily silent or went the opposite way and tried to pick fights over small matters. She talked her boss into letting her back in the office two days a week. She was more aggressive than ever, something that worked in her favor in a tight market. I was glad she had an outlet. I looked forward to Julia’s e-mails and eventual return. I resolved to ask her to marry me and then had second thoughts. It is not something we ever discussed and I had no idea how she felt. This tormented me: I was in love. I saw her everywhere I went, I talked to her as I meandered around town, used to our chatty afternoons together. I did not want to be without her. Why had we never talked about these things?

I also felt guilty about living with one woman while contemplating marriage with another one. I’m old-fashioned, too old to be rustling through the ravages of a broken home. I thought I should settle things with Carolyn before Julia returned. That way, whatever came to pass, I would be separated. I tried to bring it up with Carolyn but she shunned me. She has always had the upper hand and I think she was afraid to hear me out. Carolyn did not like the defensive position but she could not seem to regain the offensive. Technically, she should have had it. But my nonchalance threw her and she kept a tight control on her temper. Until...

One morning I broached the subject, warily to be sure. “Carolyn, you haven’t asked me again what I am going to do.”
“I don’t care what you do. I just hope you’ve settled down and ended things with that odious woman.”
Just hearing Julia described as odious set me off. “Why do you keep calling her names?” You do not know her. She isn’t at all odious.”
“Are you finished with her, Mrs. Durham? You’ve been hanging around more lately. Did she give you the heave ho?”
“She’s in Europe.”
“Oh yes, those European trips, those cultural jaunts.”
“Really Carolyn, you seem to know Mrs. Durham? Have you had her investigated?” I was only half serious but with Carolyn, you never knew what she was capable of.
“I know the type, let’s say.”
“I’m thinking of joining her in Europe.”
“Oh please! Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous about it?”
“You’re married, remember?”
“I hardly do remember. You haven’t been my wife for many years and you know it. Your choice, by the way.”
“We are married nevertheless so forget about your little European getaway.”
“Perhaps I should. But just the same, I may move out of here. Into a small studio somewhere.”
“You’re joking! Oh, don’t tell me you’ve resurrected your old dream of being a painter. Please don’t tell me anything so ludicrous at your age though really, who knows what influence Mrs. Durham might have? Julia.”
“No, I’m not. Joking or painting. I think we need to end this…whatever it is… once and for all.”
“Why? Are you planning to marry that woman?”
“We need to separate. You said yourself, I’m in the way.”
“I’m going back to work full-time soon.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You can’t leave. I won’t allow you to make a fool of yourself over that…Julia Durham.”
“You have no say. You gave that up.”
“I won’t have it!” she screeched. “I will not let her take…from me.”
“She’s not taking anything from you that you haven’t already discarded,” I yelled back, “that you relinquished long ago.”
“What an ass you’ve become. You are too dull for her…how can she stand you after…”
“After what?”
“Nothing. Forget it. I despise you both! she spat out.”

As she hurled herself toward the door, her anger a brackish aura floating about her, she grabbed at the slender handle on the French-door latch and a gold bracelet she had been wearing for years caught itself, snapped apart and flickered across the room landing at my feet.
“Don’t you dare touch my bracelet,” she howled. “I will kill you if you touch it!”
It was too late. I had picked it up and because I happened to be looking over my coin collection, wearing my magnified glasses, saw an inscription: To lovely C. for our golden moments. B.

I must say, my heart almost stopped as I handed it to her but I did not say a word. She fluffed out of the room mewling about her broken bracelet as if I had ripped it from her arm. I packed a suitcase that afternoon and went to a hotel. There was no need to wrangle over anything again but I would give her a good fight if she asked for it. You might say I snapped along with the bracelet.

Julia returned ten days later; I carried on like a long lost lover, embarrassing myself but she only teased me about leaving town more often if she was so missed. She was, I assured her. We resumed our luncheon routine, our music appreciation afternoons, our walks in Lafayette Park and ate in several new restaurants--as fast as they opened. It was a warm summer for San Francisco, the morning mist vanished quickly leaving the timeless golden afternoon light streaming through her windows. We both discovered we rather liked Stockhausen, couldn’t say why exactly but kept on dissembling his compositions long into the azure evenings.

Carolyn eventually calmed down, accepted what was inevitable and divorced me without a great deal of drama. Of course she tried to take all she could and I was liberal up to a point but I was not the same old pushover I once was. She sensed I had something on her and backed off, just a little. She sold our condo at some loss in a bad market and moved to a smaller place on Potrero Hill. She wanted a new neighborhood for a new life. She was surprisingly benign through it all but railed mightily to our Brooke.

Julia still lives in her Victorian mansion. We both manage the endless stairs and joke about who will cave in first. She said she plans to sell it at the end of the year and move to a building with an elevator lest our hearts give out. We are not married though it is discussed during our lingering talks over dinner. I hope to bring her around to it; I’m too old for shacking up and young enough to want to share her bed. No, I never told her about Carolyn’s bracelet. I’m not sure how she would take it but I didn't want to make her feel sad or confused, retrospectively. To me, it’s one of those funny coincidences in life. Maybe someday I’ll tell her--when we’re older, we’ve exhausted our conversation and in need of a good story. I bet she’ll laugh. Julia travels lightly.

THE END

#82 LOVE SQUARED: PART I

JAMES

My name is James Winston Ryder, I am seventy years old, married with two grown children, in reasonably good health and having an affair with a younger woman named Julia Durham, age sixty, who means the world to me. I’d like to divorce my wife Carolyn Ryder and marry Julia or at least co-habitate--her choice, but so far have not had the nerve to broach the subject with my wife of forty-seven years whom I no longer love. I say that unequivocally but I do not want to get hung up on the word love or its definition. I will go so far as to say I do not much like my wife since we both retired. It was only our separate lives, busy in our careers that kept us together through the years. It’s easy to ignore grievances, petty habits or hurt feelings when you are apart during the day, each consumed with singular tasks and mandates. Life goes on, one day after another and you lose track of each other. Or at least, that is how it was with me. Or us, I should say.

We live in San Francisco as we have our entire married life. I mention this detail only to give a sense of place. Maybe it matters, maybe it doesn’t. If we get bored with my rambling, I can always throw in a cable car, Golden Gate Park or the 49ers football team for local color. These may not figure in the story being told but I note that many writers of fiction like to give descriptions of streets, parts of a city or its architecture. Often weather, as in life, is used to fill space and enliven the prose. A little of that goes a long way with me but I’ll try to include the scenic or the atmospheric whenever possible though after having lived here so many years, perhaps I’ll overlook that aspect, intent on telling you what’s on my mind, which is my love affair with Julia after forty-seven years of marriage.

My current situation, if Julia can be called a situation, is my first of this type. I have been a faithful husband during my long marriage not because I am especially moral, but because life never presented me with the opportunity. No that’s wrong; never presented me with one such as Julia. Maybe it was an unimaginative bent; a lack of inclination. Carolyn, I believe, had a small thing, I will refer to it as a thing because I do not know exactly what it was. Was it an affair, a friendship, a passion, a dalliance, a meaningless fling? All of these variations could be the truth or maybe the truth is something completely different, something that eludes me. How do I know? I never asked and she never spoke of it. I only know of it because she was so sure of her actions (or motives) she never bothered to hide her trail. Phone conversations were easily overheard, mail was left in plain sight, excuses for being late or not showing up at all were of the vaguest non-committal sort: got tied up, caught in traffic, missed the bus, flight was canceled or delayed. She was careful to use excuses that could not be confirmed and could be easily conjured up out of the blue if I should inquire, which I rarely did. For a couple of years, she dined out often, traveled for her job frequently and even had to cancel our fortieth anniversary celebration.

At the time, I consulted a marriage counselor for some advice on how to handle my wife’s new independence. He suggested I have it all out with her, cards on the table and then come in for couples counseling. He said there wasn’t much to be done until I confronted her and I couldn’t, for some odd reason, do so. I think I was fascinated with her maneuvers, her nonchalant disregard of our marriage all the while carrying on in other quarters, unknown and unseen by the likes of her faithful dog of a husband. I may sound like a pushover but it was a reluctance to stir things up. At the time, our two children were involved in numerous school activities as well as extracurricular lessons and pursuits and I did not want to upset their lives. I was, truthfully, not that involved with my wife. We were married in name only and her “thing” whatever it was, did not seem all that important, or more important than the settled home life of my children. I thought when they went off to college, I might be able to…well, I did not know what I might do.

As you can probably tell, I’m not the most decisive man. Carolyn made the important decisions, planned all vacations, purchases, activities. She ran our household single-handedly, chose all of its contents and managed the lives of our children with alacrity. I must say, they complained more than I did. Carolyn was not easy to get around. We were all subdued in her presence. I am writing in the past tense but it is still true today, present tense. She tends to dominate and her aggressive tendencies made her sought after for community fund-raising and campaigning. I can’t stand being idle, she would say if I suggested she might be spreading herself too thin. She needed recognition and applause and as she repeatedly informed me, was not fulfilled as...just a wife and mother. Again, I’m writing in past tense but it is still true today. Her malaise is palpable.


I am as surprised as anyone that a love affair has found me at this late date. I am not, nor have I ever been what could be called a womanizer. When I married, I put all other women in an unmarked box, put it away in storage somewhere. My colleagues, most of a conservative ilk, rarely talked of their personal lives and surely never anything of a clandestine nature. My brother Richard had a wandering eye and his wife Beth eventually divorced him. Both Carolyn and I pitied the couple at the time and the violence and mayhem this did to their lives made us cleave together in a tighter bond, if not to each other, then to the conscription that was our marriage. The breaking up of a home, the bewildered children who have never fully recovered, we could only look upon in horror as senseless destruction tore apart what was a perfectly fine family. If ever there was an example of what not to do, territory to avoid, the breakup of this marriage was the definite article. And yet it was nothing more, nothing less traumatic than what goes on everyday in divorce courts throughout the land. I know because I am an attorney though I do not handle divorce. We tried to sympathize but in the end, ran for cover lest we be subjected the same disease. Maybe that is why I never confronted Carolyn. It makes sense now that I think of it.

I’ve gone off-point again. Perhaps I should tell you about my paramour just to keep the story rolling toward its eventual destination and I confess I do not at this time, know what or where that is. We are still in process, you might say. You will have to bear with me to reach a conclusion I am only just barely cognizant of myself. In my first sentence, I used the present tense. I am having an affair…that is correct, it is on going although much of what I relay is in the past tense, but not all. I would very much like to stick to the present and talk about my current circumstances as the past has very little to do with my story. Or does it? Did I bring up my wife’s past to perhaps justify my own behavior? I was the faithful husband and she was the philandering wife and now our roles are reversed, tit for tat you might say.

No, I am not playing that game or at least I wish I weren’t. I’d like to stay with the present. Julia and I met in the Palace of the Legion of Arts in the Presidio on a rainy day in June, two years ago. I had retired that year and was still getting used to days without structure, time without content. I put it off as long as I could. Carolyn retired five years before me but started a new career in real estate, albeit part time and her life seemed to be humming along. Retirement for her meant new opportunity. That was not the case with me and I spent many days meandering around looking for purpose. Hence, the museum on a dolorous Wednesday.

It had been raining for three days and Carolyn and I were getting on each other’s nerves. She was used to having the house to herself and accused me of crowding her, shadowing her, “underfoot,” is one of the words she used. I could have said the same thing about her but as queen of the castle, I capitulated and found my way to the museum. I am fond of painting, drawing and arms and armor.

I may as well confess something, in my naïve youth I entertained the idea of becoming a painter for about six months after seeing a Van Gogh exhibit in Paris. I was spending a year in Europe, my last year of high school, with a French family. With my new enthusiasm, I enrolled in a Saturday art class where I was promptly informed I had no talent for drawing and without it, I could have no future as an artist. I should have stood my ground because drawing in the next several decades became negligible, considered a hindrance by some and I might have made my mark splattering paint. But instead, I went home to Connecticut, started college and then law school just as my father had and embarked on a career that has been fulfilling in its own way.

I have retained my love of painting and that is why I was loitering around the museum café on a Wednesday, having looked comprehensively at the museum’s collection and a special exhibit of eighteenth-century glassware. It was in the café I started a conversation with Julia, also alone, sitting at the next table desultorily eating a piece of rhubarb tart and staring into space at nothing in particular, a look that said to me she had nothing but time to kill and this museum day had been her choice for better or worse. I knew the look because it was exactly my own look and I knew the feeling because it was my own feeling.

“How did you like the exhibit?” I asked her; a rather arid opening line said only because I had to request a chair from her table where they had all been moved.
“Hmm. No comment,” she said dryly.
“That bad?” I asked.
“Not bad, just not riveting, shall we say.”
“I thought the Degas drawings the most interesting works I looked at. I haven’t been here for years and they are rather new I think.”
“Yes. Well…sometimes I wish this museum would jazz it up a bit. Do something monumental, or at least unorthodox.”
“Well, I think you’re looking at the wrong museum for that. The DeYoung is more up to speed with jazzy.”
“They are too conservative as well. New York is the place for art. We’ve always been a backwater here in San Francisco.”
“Are you from here?”
“Born and bred. Such as it is.”
“Such as what is?”
“My breeding.”
“Ah, now there’s a nineteenth-century concept I haven’t heard referred to for decades.”
“It’s gauche to talk about breeding. We must all be equal under the sun.”
“Equal under the sun, but perhaps not under the material umbrella.” I sounded foolish and added, “I mean, we are supposed to pretend we are all equal at the same time doing everything possible to make sure we are not equal, that we are superior…well, forgive me, this rain and idleness have me dithering, unsure what to say to a young woman in a café.”
“I am hardly that but thank you for it just the same.”
There was silence after this, I couldn’t think of anything more to say and she resumed her vacant staring. I got up to leave, nodded to her and prepared to wait for the bus which could take some time. Or not.

After about fifteen minutes, she made her exit from the building and found me still waiting and without saying anything, waited with me. You can tell I am old by how much room I gave her; I wanted it known I was not attempting to pick her up. She kept a distance and said little. After another ten minutes and still no bus we both began to pace and look at our watches as if the watch could tell us when the bus was coming. Julia got out her cell phone and dialed Muni to find out how long it was going to be until a bus came. She was advised to not wait at the museum, that bus was delayed by street construction. It was suggested she walk to California Street and wait there. She relayed this information to me and we both started walking in the direction of another bus stop and since it was something of a trek, we had time to converse further, though neither of us had anything to say except the rain had finally stopped. The sky was an interesting shade of glass while the grass glistened in an acid green wash. The pine trees can only be described as brooding. I promised local color and there you have it.

There was no bus in sight but a taxi somnolently passed us and I took that as a sign and waved for it. “Come, I will escort you home in my taxi,” I said to her.
“Thank you,” she said and almost galloped into the safety and warmth just as more sprawls of rain threatened to drown us. “I live on Clay, near Gough,” she added.
“Very near to where I live at Jackson and Franklin,” I said.
“We probably see each other in Whole Foods,” she said.
“My wife does the shopping for our household,” I blurted out. You can readily see I have no finesse in the art of the pickup. What was I trying to do, warn her? She looked at me with little enough interest, watching out the window. Julia, I have learned, does not feel the need to fill space with talk. In this she is different from my wife who is nervous without a running dialogue of some kind. Julia paid no attention to the silence in the cab and every bit of small talk I attempted, fell flat. It seemed only a matter of minutes before we were at her corner. She was about to dash out of the confined space but stopped herself, put out her hand and said, “I didn’t get your name…”
“Ryder.”
“Well Ryder, thank you so much. I would still be sitting in the rain on a dreary corner in the Richmond if not for you. You are very kind. My name is Julia, by the way and I live in that interesting Victorian that everyone longs to see the inside of. Perhaps you might like to drop over for tea or a drink some afternoon?“ She handed me her card which I accepted without much inclination toward her ambivalent invitation. I was unfamiliar with chance encounters.
“Thank you Julia, I might like that. In any case, I’ll see you in Whole Foods. I sometimes look over their wine selection. Do you like wine?” (I was trying to redeem my autonomy.)
“Very much, Ryder.”
“Well, perhaps we can share a bottle on another rainy afternoon.”
“Or any sort of afternoon. Goodbye, Ryder, nice meeting you. And thanks again.”
I waved and watched her walk up the long flight of steps from the street to her door. I wondered which apartment she lived in. It was indeed an interesting old house and Carolyn had often mentioned that she would like to see the inside. For a time she was obsessed with this particular building.

JULIA

My name is Julia Durham, I’m sixty years old and have been unemployed for two and a half years. I say that as if it were the most important fact of my life but for the recently unemployed, legions of us, it seems that way, having lost my gallery job with the recession. There are no jobs in the arts at this time, everything is dried up, present tense. I’m waiting for past tense. No one has been buying for the last two years though many are selling if buyers could be found.

I am also having an affair with a good man named James Ryder, on going for two years. We met when I was drowning my sorrows over a cup of coffee and some sort of pastry in the Legion of Honor café. I use the word affair loosely: In some ways it is a friendship more than anything quite so ardent. We’re not so young that passion rules our day but we never rule it out. What we have is a compelling compatibility though in all honesty, we’ve spent more than a few afternoons in my bed, the one I used to share with my husband, Blake, before he died. Ryder shares, I presume, a bed with his wife though I've never asked him. I don't want to know. He says, we go our own way. I leave it at that.

I live in a elegant flat in a Victorian mansion in San Francisco that I begged and cajoled my husband to buy. He may have preferred staying in our home in the outer Richmond but the neighborhood was deteriorating and I wanted to live in the heart of the city. The flat was shockingly expensive but when our house sold for a decent price, we were able to manage it with only a small mortgage.

When I met Ryder, I had a lot on my mind. My settlement money from Blake’s insurance policy was dwindling and my expenses kept going up. Thank God we paid off the flat before Blake died. I would be looking at homelessness if not for his prudence. I remember trying to talk him into a second mortgage so we could take a leisurely trip to Europe as some of our friends were doing. He not only vetoed this idea, but used what extra money we had to pay the mortgage off sooner. He said there would be all the time in the world to travel once we retired and the smartest thing we could do was have our home paid off. How right he was. Our good friends, Selma and Jerome, did take that trip after a top-grade kitchen remodel. When the recession hit, she was laid-off and he was down-scaled. They lost their house in Marin and had to move into a cramped two bedroom apartment in San Rafael. Their marriage quickly disintegrated along with their savings. It pains me to think of their situation and how close we might have come to that. Boomers are ridiculous, really. Blake was a little older than me. He was of the generation that paid for things. Every night I thank him for saving my assets.

As it is, our beautiful flat is all mine but with constraints. The HOA dues and all the expenses that go with home ownership keeps me awake at night since I lost my job. As an art dealer, I had been lucky during the go-go years, as they’re referred to in magazine articles. Everything was selling and I was in the right place. I had the uncanny ability to judge artists and accurately assess their future value. I made some shrewd deals especially with Warhol; well everyone did with him, but I lucked out in another area no one was paying particular attention to: the California Impressionists, including the unfashionable western artists. Many of these works were languishing in apartments all over the Bay Area. No one was interested, everyone was hyped up over pop art and contemporary. Landscape painting was off the radar and had been for some time. It couldn’t have been more passé. So I bought what I could find. I’ve become somewhat of an expert on California Impressionism by default really. Now I’m attempting to deal privately but nothing is moving right at this juncture, as I mentioned. Fortunately, I had a small but choice William Merritt Chase I came upon in my travels that has kept me in business; by that I mean, in my flat for the past winter. I’m sitting on a couple of other important works; a small Thiebaud oil and a Frankenthaler drawing I could sell if I had to. Things are starting to pick up I’m told. We’ll see.

With unemployment and three days of rain, I spent a dull Wednesday afternoon at the Legion of Honor knowing full well I was in the mood for something edgier. I had been in New York the month previous selling the Chase and had enjoyed the galleries and museums in that city. San Francisco is not quite cutting-edge when it comes to the arts. Oh, San Franciscans give it their best shot but it always feels like a backwater compared to New York or even Boston. And with European cities there is no comparison. I lingered around a drawing exhibit, glommed as much pleasure out of the permanent collection as I could, my enthusiasm lacking, I admit, and then went in search of a cup of coffee for my headache. That is where I met Mr. Ryder, sitting at the next table looking as forlorn as any man in the middle of the week, alone and idle could look. I was in my own self-absorbed world on that day and might not have noticed him but for his casual remark:
“Interesting exhibit, would you say?”
I had no comment to this devoid inquiry and only grunted. He then added, “That bad?” or something of that nature. A leading question, really. I felt as an art connoisseur of sorts that something more riveting than a grunt was in order so I said, “It was not bad at all. Not enough edge, perhaps.”
“None at all,” he said.
He looked slightly bemused as if he’d made a joke. I then gave my droll opinion about San Francisco being a backwater, implying it was okay for me to say this as it is my hometown and that led to other banal remarks and we left off talking about the weather, that most predictable of subjects. Absolutely nothing interesting between us whatsoever. He was wearing a wedding band and at one point actually felt the need to mention the wife. As if I were ready to snap him up. We both commented that we’d taken the bus to the museum as if we needed to bore each other further. As if the effort at enthusiasm would be capitulation.

He left the café and a few minutes later I did also. That put us both waiting for the bus with a slight drizzle still subsisting. We waited about fifteen minutes and I finally worked up enough objection to call Muni to find out when the hell a bus would come. We were directed to California Street so we walked there together although I don’t believe we said much. When a taxi drifted past us, seemingly as lost as we were, he hailed it and invited me to a ride home. He was lucky I didn’t live in the Mission or he would have had one gargantuan fee. As it happened, we lived close to each other in that area that can be called either Pacific Heights or Russian Hill depending on your perspective but I call it Lafayette Park.

I got out of the cab at my building and had a momentary pang of guilt when I saw his face deflate as I was about to dash inside. The rain had started up again, that is my excuse but truthfully, I wanted to get away with as little intrusion on myself as possible. I was in a dark mood that day, I’d had some unsettling news about the roof on my building that was going to cost plenty. My Victorian mansion is extremely high maintenance and there are only five of us to share the expense. Two of us were unemployed and another going through a divorce. The other two were not looking upon us with any favor though it might have been my imagination. Did they really know our circumstance? I was possibly projecting my own insecurity on them.

Then I remembered my manners. “My name is Julia,” I said, putting out my hand to shake his.
“Ryder,” he said.
“Well Ryder, I thank you for rescuing me and not leaving me sitting in the Richmond in the rain.”
“My pleasure, Julia. I live just three blocks away.”
I handed him my card and vaguely invited him over for tea if he cared to…I don’t know…see my place, I think was what I offered. It’s an interesting building and has been painstakingly restored throughout. I still show it off after nine years, proud of it. My husband wanted to buy a single-family home in the inner Sunset but I convinced him to go with this TIC (Tenancy in Common). It has its drawbacks and Blake had many complaints, especially the steps, but the location can’t be beat and it is beautiful. It’s worth a bunch now, or was before the crash. It will be again and I might have to sell it one day. Depends on how things work out on a number of levels.

JAMES

On a rainy afternoon while Carolyn was visiting her sister in Santa Barbara I got antsy and went to Whole Foods for a bottle of something to warm my spirit; preferably something Italian and robust. As I reached into my coat pocket I found Julia’s card exactly where I shoved it approximately three weeks ago. On a whim, I don’t know quite what made me do it, I bought a bouquet of daffodils and phoned her as I was leaving the store. I am not given to impulse purchases or telephone calls but as I was walking toward my building, I heard her laconic voice on the phone and almost hung up, so shriveled did my little forward motion appear to me suddenly.
“Hello,” she said. “This is Julia Durham.”
“Hello Julia, this is James Ryder, we met at the museum a few weeks ago. We shared a taxi…”
“Yes, hello Ryder. Raining again I see.”
“Well yes. I am just leaving Whole Foods with a bottle of wine and you mentioned you liked wine and I was wondering if you’d like to have a glass…with me, if you’re not busy, you didn’t say if you worked…I hope I’m not intruding or interrupting...” It just then occurred to me that I also didn’t know if she were single. But then, she did invite me.
“Relax Ryder. I’m not doing anything particularly gratifying, and yes, I’d love a glass of wine. You know where I live, ring the bell, I’m on the third floor, a lot of steps, no elevator I’m afraid but don’t be daunted.”
“I’ll see you in about three minutes.”

There were indeed a lot of steps. Julia’s flat, upscale and modernized, did not have that staid adult-world flavor most homes of the established have. It had an casual ambiance that most women of fifty-eight can’t manage. They tend toward the fussy. My own home is like that. A lot of little fixtures, groupings, bibelots, drapery and mirrors; an attempt to make an impression that is, in the end, irrelevant. Often irritating for a man. But here everything harmonized. The note struck was one of flair. The colors were subtle; soothing mauves, more gray than purple. The eye could take in any number of unusual artifacts and entails without being jarred by any one thing. I noted appreciably there were no glittering mirrors to distract. There was a fine landscape painting over her fireplace that looked important, valuable. Her furniture was placed in slap-dash attitudes. I can only say it allowed one to breathe, neither overdone or excessively formal. She had a splendid view of the bay from her kitchen window. A feeling of space permeated although she told me the square footage and it was less than my own flat, which now seemed claustrophobic and cloying.

It occurred to me she must make or have a lot of money to live in this flat. My wife would have instantly sized it up within a dollar of its value. I was taken up with the ease which with she greeted me, accepted my humble offerings, opened the wine and set out the glasses, old glasses similar to what I had seen at the museum a few weeks ago. She chatted light-heartedly as if we’d known each other for ever. She has what used to be called a blithe spirit. I was relieved; she was anything but the day I met her in the cafe with her brooding intensity. She was jovial and entertaining as she set out cheese and crackers, lit candles when it got darker and showed me her classical record collection, all vinyl, and explained her reasons for owning each recording. She seemed to know a lot about music, was not, she said, a musician, but a music lover. When she put on a Haydn string trio, I felt a kinship with her; he was a favorite of mine.

“Most people prefer Mozart,” she said sipping her wine. “Of course he’s magnificent, but his tunes play over and over in my head the same way popular music does and I find this somehow disconcerting. Have you ever noticed that? He is supposed to be a little more understated, isn’t he, for a genius? I find he grabs at my attention and stays with me, as if he were Elton John or some other equally facile songster. Shouldn’t there be some ambiguity, some subtlety? Maybe I should compare him to the Beatles instead. I mean, he’s Mozart, after all.
“I have not listened to the Beatles or Elton John. I’m really dating myself, aren’t I?“
“Yes you are" she said, matter-of-factly, without guile.

I had never heard Mozart discussed so irreverently; he was indeed the genius, no one ever said a word against him. I was intrigued by this while still holding Mozart in high esteem. We discussed music of the classical period and then went on to the Romantics. She loved Grieg, she said. I said I preferred Brahms. We both had a high regard for Dvorak but considered Chopin the master of the swoon. It was soothing to sit in her living room with the sound of the needle scraping across the vinyl as I hadn’t heard it for so many years. That distinct resonate sound that CDs never replicated. Carolyn got rid of our phonograph and all our records years ago and installed a CD player. For some reason, I never felt the desire to replace my old and cherished recordings with the CDs. I couldn’t read the miniscule liner notes, did not enjoy the cover art and like many of my age-group, uninterested in new technology.

Listening to the old recordings gave my heart a kick, brought me back to the past when I would delight in purchasing a new version of the Beethoven String Quartets or Brahms First. For a while I belonged to a music appreciation club sponsored by one of the many record stores San Francisco had in those days. I could never interest Carolyn in classical music and she could never interest me in Tony Bennett, her idol. All popular music has its limitations. I mean, how many times can you listen to the same lyrics before losing interest? Don’t answer that; people like what is familiar. I was happy that Julia had this same appreciation for classical music and we enjoyed the afternoon drinking wine and listening to Haydn, among others.

At about 6:30 I had begun to overstay my welcome but not wanting to end the day and go home to nothing, I invited her to have dinner somewhere in the neighborhood. She declined the invitation saying she preferred to stay in but said she would take a rain-check for another night. I respected her honesty; she offered no excuses or hastily dredged up plans. I have never found comfort in subterfuge or what might be considered white lies that comfort. I suggested Saturday night as I knew Carolyn would not be home until late Sunday afternoon and she agreed.

I was a little tipsy maneuvering my way down that long flights of stairs but with an animation I had not felt for some time. Julia was an interesting combination of bohemian and aristocratic. Obviously she had a taste for the finer things, I could tell by her décor, her clothing, any number of indicators… but it was not a grasping acquisitiveness so prevalent these days. She had the aristocratic disregard for the things money could buy while maintaining a high standard. Her cheese selection was of the best, her shoes were fine Italian leather, her hair was of a smooth classic style, requiring no fuss, her clothing, tasteful, if casual. I could sense an easy spirit. She would have served Velveeta and Ritz crackers with the same aplomb. In fact, had done just that a few weeks later as we continued our musical appreciation afternoons.

I will leave off Julia for now. Later I will tell you what she looks like, try to offer a portrait in words. I was not quite up for particulars as I left her place that first day. I wanted to savor the dream-like state she evoked. I made my way home, not knowing if it were raining or whether I had anything on hand for dinner. Fussy old person that I am, that is what I’m usually thinking of when my wife is away. Instead I was thankful for the empty house in which to contemplate my entirely unexpected afternoon. I went online and read restaurant reviews for the first time in my life. I wanted to take her somewhere memorable; and more importantly, not to a place I went with Carolyn. I wanted novelty for Julia; that is what she represented to me. A parallel universe.

JULIA

I was surprised when Ryder called me on a rainy afternoon and said he’d just bought a bottle of wine and did I want to share it with him. I often wished I wasn’t so free with my card. I can say that day in the taxi, I offered it to him with a feeling of momentary exhilaration; happy to be able to hand it to someone, anyone. I had begun to decline socially, officially; another hazard of being unemployed, out of action. I decided to ignore the wedding band but truthfully, all women register that portentous symbol without so much as a flickering glance.

On that day we met in the museum cafe, I was not particularly attracted to him, but I do remember sensing the same sort of ennui in him I felt. Or was it rejection? On some level, life was rejecting us. He was definitely lonesome despite the wedding band. I can spot lonely in a crowd. Since my husband died and my job washed up, I know exactly how it looks, feels, speaks, eats, sleeps, dreams and shops. We are on a first-name basis.

And that was the beleaguered state of mind Ryder found me in the afternoon he called with his wine. I barely remembered what he looked like and responded blandly. “Yeah sure, I remember you, yes…by all means, come on over…it’s raining again I see? Many steps, by the way. Did I worry he’d have a heart attack by the time he reached me on the third floor? Maybe, I was thinking of my husband and the stairs. When we bought this place, who knew he would have difficulty with them? He was still skiing at that time, running all over the City. They might become too much for me one day but as I said, it’s a great investment though it wouldn’t be prudent to sell it quite at this moment. Ryder’s wife is a real estate broker. I wonder if I should give her the listing when and if. She doesn’t know about me. He says it doesn’t matter. She lives her own life, goes her own way, that sort of thing. I believe him; the sadness in his eyes when we first met tells the whole story and that story is one of neglect. I don’t think he realized.

On that first visit, he was bashful, or nervous, but expanded when I showed him my record collection. Okay, it was my husband’s collection but now it is mine and I cherish every recording. I know them by heart. I was pleased to learn Ryder loved classical music as I don’t think I can really and truly relate to anyone who doesn’t. It’s a trifling thing, I suppose. Ryder seemed pleased with my selections and that put me in a good mood. When he said Haydn was his big favorite, I beamed. I then spouted off on Mozart and he wasn’t offended. Most people worship Mozart and you can never say anything that verges on the critical but I feel if you love someone, truly appreciate them, you can be critical. Like San Francisco: I am often critical but it is because it is my hometown and I am devoted to it.

Ryder let me go on and on, gabbing from subject to subject, one diatribe to the next. He didn’t mind my skewered political views or my blasphemous religious outtakes. In truth, I gave him all my worst mind froth thinking I would offend him and get it over with. I was unable to rattle Mr. Ryder that day. Nor much since; except for the topic of Mrs. Ryder. He does not want me to meet her though I think I should. I think we should be adult about certain things. He says my idea of adult is rather teenage for the most part. It’s true he’s a stickler for protocol and I am a nonconformist. We always have one issue or another to disagree about, to keep things interesting. It has been two years of fine friendship and we are both aware that without the other, solitude would be our daily diet. We do not wish to go back to that but have not yet figured out how to avoid certain disruptions. Someday we may have to face certain facts. Somehow we managed to fall in love...I'll say no more.

Ryder invited me for dinner after that first afternoon. He said his wife was out of town and he was free for the evening. He picked me up in a taxi and we headed to Union Street to a restaurant he said he’d heard about and had always wanted to try. Later he admitted he watched the popular restaurant review show on PBS and had a list of places to try.
“My wife never wants to experiment. We generally go to the same places where she doesn‘t eat much.”
I could just imagine what they were. The predictable places all San Franciscans frequent. In fact, the one we went to was rather well-known, not at all trendy and I’d been there several times. Italian food, nice ambiance, lively atmosphere. I stuffed myself as I tend to do in good restaurants and felt grossly decadent ordering dessert after all that pasta. Ryder seemed amused by my appetite and encouraged me.
“My wife never eats much, worried about middle-age spread. She’s not nearly so much fun to eat with,” he said. “I love that you enjoy eating. It makes me happy for some reason,” he said.
“ I like to go all out in a this sort of restaurant, it makes the staff happy. I diet at home, eat lightly. Fortunately for my waistline, I haven’t been eating out much since being unemployed so I have some high calorie meals to my credit. Tomorrow I’ll have to dine on lettuce and water. You know my husband owned a restaurant and I worked in it. That’s how we met.”
“Here in the City?”
“Yes. Downtown.”
“What was the name of it? I worked downtown and have eaten in every restaurant at least once.”
“It was called Blake’s. It was a steakhouse. Popular with the martini crowd.”
“I know it. I often took visitors from the Midwest there because they wanted just that: a big steak and a stiff drink. What happened to it?”
“He sold it. Got an offer he didn’t want to refuse.”
“What did he do then?”
“He invested in restaurants he didn’t have to work in day to day. For a while he had a lucrative place at the wharf that was a big success. He was a silent partner. Eventually that sold too. Then he retired and just played with his money. I made him buy the flat I live in. That was his gift to me. We lived in the outer Richmond, a boring, indistinct block. The house needed updating but I had no love for it, it did not inspire me. I, like a lot of other boomers, got restless and wanted something new. Now I’m left to figure out how to pay for it. Oh, it’s paid off. But the maintenance is high and as I said, I’ve been unemployed for a couple of years and things are getting tight. But let’s not talk of that.”
“Let’s have a cognac. What do you say? Can you handle one more course?”
“You are incorrigible, Mr. Ryder.”
That was the beginning of many good times dining out in San Francisco. We covered the entire city testing out menus, playing critic, mocking epicurean pretension, eating without counting a calorie. He said it was okay, the many steps would keep us in shape.

JAMES

I left Julia after that first dinner and returned home. I was hoping she would invite me in; she did not and I didn’t press it. What did I have to offer her? But I felt lonely as I unlocked my door. The flat looked uninviting; it always did when Carolyn was away even though I like being alone. But that night, I was restless. I should have asked Julia to go somewhere for a drink but I had the feeling she had already had more than she might usually drink. I did too. I knew I would have trouble sleeping with that slosh of food and drink in my system. Can’t eat and drink like the old days, I said to myself. But it was worth it to see Julia eat so heartily. Carolyn nibbles at salad, sips a brothy soup and drinks one glass of wine if she is feeling festive otherwise it’s mineral water. Strange to compare women. Not fair at all. Carolyn would be apoplectic if she knew. As for Julia, she is not really comparable. A woman with a distinct persona, she compared to no one I’d ever met.

Let me describe her on that first date though it will be inadequate I assure you. She is not very tall, about 5’ 4” and has dark hair with a few patches of gray but she still looked younger than her then fifty-eight years (at the time). She dressed in a unique style; her clothes were not those of most women her age but I know little of women’s fashions. I can only say Julia’s tended toward the unusual perhaps from another age. She wore a long skirt with a sort of laced Victorian boot. Her jacket was a textured finely-gauged wool from a well-known Italian designer. I knew this because she said it was purchased on a trip she took to Italy during the nineties.
“There was a fire in our Richmond district home and I lost almost everything that was in the bedroom,” she said. My husband offered me an Italian sojourn while our home was being aired and refurbished. What I really wanted was a new house but he said it wasn’t the right time to sell so that was my compensation. I was a little sulky at that time I admit. I told him he never had to buy me another thing if I could have a new flat,” she said. “And I kept my word. I didn’t spend money on anything for years hoping he would agree to sell and move into something fresh and modern. It’s too bad he didn’t have many years in the new place but it made me happy and that made him happy. My husband was a very kind, generous man, Ryder, many people thought he was too old for me but he was perfect. I would have been too flighty without his grounding presence. I admit I’m not great at the day-to-day junk. The day you and I met I was sulking over roof repairs. I have to shell out a bunch and I wanted to take a trip to Europe for an art expo. I was in the art business, you know? I made money, I decorated the flat with my earnings. Now I have to reinvent myself and deal on my own. I find this a little daunting even though I sort of had it in mind for years. I’m not sure I can do it on my own. I’m not disciplined but I will have to get myself motivated if this damn recession ever ends and find my clients again.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, Julia. You seem capable, you present a good face, that sort of thing.”
“Thank you Ryder. I feel my old self again with you. I’ve been a drag recently. I’ve even started seeing a shrink. Blake would say, “Get on with it, old thing, don't quibble.” I can hear it, he was a can-do sort. Didn’t believe in moods and self-analysis. He kept me on an even keel.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Julia. How long has it been?”
“Four years.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll find your way again. Don’t let the economy get you down. It’s just a cycle. All things renew themselves. My wife is in real estate and she’s pretty down right now too. I tell her, relax, take a break. It will all start up again. She’s actually retired but worked part time, independently, during the boom. She was having a pretty good time for herself but all that’s over. Now she’s stuck at home with me and I’m getting on her nerves.”
“Is that why I found you hanging out in a museum in the middle of the week?”
“Exactly.”
“Well Ryder, I don’t know what we should do at this juncture. We can form a classical music society and tear the great composers apart and put them together again.”
“I’d like that, Julia.”

I didn’t want to tell her I was hoping for more. What could I offer her? I would take what I could get. I needed her. Who was the imperceptible Julia? What did she have that others did not? Her looks appealed to me; more than any woman’s ever had. But that would not be the full picture. There was an indefinable quality to her. Maybe it was her voice; smooth with a depth that promised more of something you did not know you needed but may not be able to live without. You wanted to drop down into its resonance and luxuriate. I am making a hash of an attempt at descriptive prose again.

I will say directly, without fanfare or embellishment, after that first dinner I had a renewed sense of anticipation; an altogether new sensation for me. I had been under-
whelmed for years.

TO BE CONTINUED