JAMESMy 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.
JULIAMy 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.
JAMESOn 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.
JULIAI 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.
JAMESI 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
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