Rules Get Broken (25 page)

But before I could take even a moment’s pleasure in these thoughts, I heard that voice from somewhere deep inside.

Do you have any idea what you did tonight?
the voice asked, harsh as ever.

Do you realize you went out on a date tonight? Two weeks after your wife died? What the hell is the matter with you? Why did you do that? How could you do that? Do you have any idea how bad this looks? Can you imagine what your friends are going to say when they find out? What your family will think when they find out? Can you imagine what the folks are already thinking? Christ Almighty, John, your father worshipped Peg. What the hell must he think? What must Peg think if she’s looking down on you now?

The voice paused. I could imagine its nameless, shapeless source shaking its head in disbelief and disgust.

And to make matters worse, you kiss her. And you enjoy it. I mean you really enjoy it. And then you ask if you can take her dress off. Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable! If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you never loved Peg at all.

“That’s not true,” I said, my eyes now filled with tears. “That’s just not true. I loved Peg more than anything else in the world. You know that! And I miss her. Terribly. You know that too. I don’t know why I called Nancy or why I did any of the things I did tonight. And I know what people are going to say. But I also know when I saw Nancy’s name on that damned list, I had to call her. I knew somehow she was the only way I was going to be able to feel anything other than this ache, even if only for a few hours. And I was right.”

You may have been “right,” pal
, the voice answered,
but this has got to stop. And it has to stop now. What you’re doing isn’t done. Your wife died. You’re a widower. You’re supposed to be in mourning. For what? A year? You can’t start dating a woman two weeks after your wife died. You just can’t do it! There are rules, you know. Rules you’re supposed to follow. And if you don’t, mark my words, you’ll pay. I don’t know how, but you will.

I snorted before responding. I could feel anger and frustration starting to rise. “You know what?” I said to the voice. “The last thing I’m worried about is what’ll happen to me if I break the goddamn rules. Maybe because I can’t imagine paying a higher price than losing Peg. Maybe because I don’t care what everybody else thinks because they’re not in my shoes. Maybe I just don’t give a shit. Period! I don’t know. What I do know is I felt good tonight. For the first time since Peg died. And if that pisses everybody off, well, maybe I should say ‘so be it.’ I’m the one who lost my wife. No one else. So maybe I’m the one who should decide how to behave.”

I slowed down for a red light at the intersection of Wolver Hollow Road and Northern Boulevard and came to a stop. I waited for a response from the voice, but none came.

The light changed to green, and I turned left onto Wolver Hollow Road. Within a few minutes, I was on the same part of the road where I had started to kiss Nancy’s fingers, and I found myself smiling at the recollection.

The voice remained silent, but it would return. I knew I could count on that.

Nancy had just finished blow-drying her hair when the telephone rang at twenty minutes after five on September 1st, Labor Day afternoon. She wrapped the bath towel around her and walked from the bathroom into the kitchen, answering the phone on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” she answered, cradling the phone in the crook of her neck as she tried to tighten the towel around her.

“Nan?” said the voice on the other end.

“Yep, it’s me, Mom,” she replied, letting the receiver slide down into her hand, the towel now secure.

“Where’ve you been? I’ve been calling you all day.”

“I went to Jones Beach.”

“All by yourself?”

Nancy looked up at the ceiling. “Yes, Mom, all by myself.”

“So how was last night?”

Nancy tucked the towel under her and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. This was not going to be a short call. “Last night was good. He’s a very nice guy.”

“You don’t sound overly enthused. What aren’t you telling me?”

Nancy picked at a fingernail with her thumb. “I’m not ‘not telling’ you anything, Mom. We had a very nice evening.”

“So what’s the problem? What am I missing here?”

“You know what the problem is. The problem is his wife died. The problem is she died only two weeks ago. The problem is he never should have asked me out, and I never should have said yes.”

“So? I still must be missing something. Everything you just told me, you already knew. Why is any of this a problem now when it wasn’t last week when he called?”

Nancy stopped fiddling with her fingernail, put her feet up on the opposite chair and looked around the kitchen as if in search of help.

“It’s a problem now because I’ve found out what a nice person he is. I mean he is really nice, Mom. And he’s intelligent, sensitive, confident. A perfect gentleman. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted. All my life I’ve looked for someone who was cool but not conceited. Sure of himself but not full of himself. Good looking but without an attitude. Gentle but not soft.” She smiled at the next thought. “Someone whose hands are warm and dry, not cold and clammy. Whose fingernails are clean. Who smells clean. All my life I hoped I’d find someone like that, and now I have; and I can’t have him.”

Nancy stopped, collected her thoughts and then continued. “I went out with him out of sympathy. Nothing more. I got wrapped up in the tragedy of what happened and wanted to help him. I said that to you, when I first heard his wife had died. That I wished there was something I could do to help this man. So I go out with him, and what happens? He turns out to be the nicest man I’ve ever met. Except he can never be mine. Because he’s just lost his wife, and he still loves her…as he should. Oh shit,” Nancy concluded with a sigh. “I wish I’d never met him.”

“Well, at least now I know why you’re upset,” Shirley said. “But you know…in a sense you really don’t have a problem, because neither you nor John has a choice in what you do next. You both do nothing. Simple as that. He can’t get involved with someone this soon after losing his wife, and you can’t let yourself get involved with him.

“There are conventions, Nan,” Shirley continued, “customs, rules—whatever you want to call them—which people adhere to. Have to adhere to. Whether they agree with them or not. Not to mention the fact that you’re a young girl. The last thing in the world you need to do is get involved with a man this much older than you with two children. That’s foolish in the best of circumstances, but plain crazy and asking for trouble when his wife’s only been dead a few weeks. And you know what? I’ll bet John knows this as well as I do. He’s not going to call you again. And nothing’s going to happen between the two of you. Because it can’t.”

“You’re right,” Nancy agreed reluctantly. “But if he does call me and asks me out again, I’m going to tell him no, and I’m going to ask him not to call me anymore. Because I don’t need this.”

“Sounds harsh, Nan, but that’s what you have to be ready to do. Some rules you don’t break and not get hurt.”

Nancy glanced at the kitchen clock. It was almost five thirty-five. “Well, I appreciate the advice, Mom. I really do. But right now, I think I should say good-bye. I still have to get dressed—I’m sitting here in a towel —I want to straighten up the apartment, and I have to make dinner. And…tomorrow’s a workday, so I’d like to get to bed early.”

“Okay. Maybe we’ll see you next weekend?”

“Yeah, maybe. I’d like that.”

“Good. Call and let me know.”

“I will.”

“And Nan?”

“What, Mom?”

“Remember what I said.”

“I will.”

Nancy swung her feet off the chair in front of her, got up slowly and hung up the receiver. She walked back into the bathroom, hung up her towel and struggled to fend off a growing sense of sadness and loneliness.

“Why did this have to happen?” she said aloud to her herself. “Why am I always in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Nancy was taking the vacuum out of the hall closet when the phone rang again at five forty-five.
Wonder what she forgot to tell me?
she thought as she put the vacuum down in the middle of the hall and stepped over it to get to the phone.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Hi, Nan. It’s John.”

Her heart leaped. “Hi. How are you?” she asked, excited but frightened. Terribly frightened, she quickly realized.

“I’m good. How about you?”

“I’m okay.”

“I just…wanted to tell you again that I really enjoyed being with you and talking to you last night.”

“I enjoyed being with you too.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” I said, struggling to find the words I wanted to say next. “I really am.”

A few seconds of awkward silence passed while Nancy waited for me to speak.

“I, uh…the reason for my call is…and I hope you don’t mind my asking this…but I was wondering if maybe we could get together next Saturday night. I know this is completely unorthodox, and I know I shouldn’t be asking you to spend any more time with me. But I am. And hopefully, you’ll say yes. So the question is…are you free next Saturday night? Maybe go to a movie?”

Nancy’s mind started to race.
My God
, she thought.
I can’t believe this is happening. I don’t want to tell him no, but I have to. Now. Before it’s too late. Before things get out of hand.

“You still there?” I asked.

I thought I heard a little chuckle. “Yes, I’m still here. And yes, I’m free next Saturday night.”

“Great. That’s great. Same time? Seven o’clock?”

“That’ll be fine.”

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

“Okay,” Nancy answered. “Have a good week.”

“You too.”

Nancy stared at the phone for several seconds after hanging up.

Looks like rules are about to be broken
, she said to herself with a resigned sigh.

Then she bent down to plug in the vacuum.

My appointment with Father Richardson was at seven o’clock on Tuesday evening, September 2nd. I pulled into the church parking lot about five minutes before seven, parked under a huge old tulip tree and headed across the street to St. John’s of Lattington Episcopal Church.

As I approached the church, I was struck by the incongruity that such a small, relatively unimposing structure could be the church that the wealthiest people on Long Island, the “old money,” the aristocracy, so to speak, called theirs. In addition to having a relatively small footprint, the church was not a high structure and hadn’t been given a high steeple. Instead, the roof had a relatively low pitch, which reduced the overall height of the roof line; and the bell tower, if one could call it a tower, was a squat rectangular affair affixed to one corner of the church and extended only five or six feet above the roof peak.

But what the church lacked in size and height was made up for in quality of construction. The walls were built from blocks of pale gray stone, each three feet long, two feet high and two feet thick. The headers and sills above and below each stained glass window and above and below the heavy double oak doors at the back of the church were rough chiseled granite, and the roof was covered with thick slate shingles. The gutters, downspouts and flashing which accented each corner of the building and the roof were all heavy gauge copper, now blackish-green with age.

The oak doors at the back of the church opened onto broad granite steps and a large flagstone courtyard. A flagstone walk ran along one side of the church from the courtyard to a single oak door, which was the entrance to the church offices. Four ancient oaks towered overhead, and the shadows they cast belied the hour as I headed towards the side door.

When I reached the door, I lifted the wrought iron ring below a small leaded glass window and let it fall twice against the striker plate. I waited, but no one came to the door. I was about to lift the ring a third time when I heard an old lock set turn with a metallic clank. A second later and the door swung outward.

“John,” Father Richardson said, his hand extended to me in greeting, “it’s good to see you. It’s been a long time.”

“It has been, Father,” I agreed. “I think the last time we spoke was Christmas Eve—three, maybe four years ago.”

“Come in. Come in,” Father Richardson said, holding the door open with one hand and waving me inside with the other. “We’ll go upstairs to my study.”

I stepped inside and followed him down a narrow hall towards an even narrower staircase. “Has it been that long?” he asked as he started up the stairs. “I thought I saw you last Christmas Eve.”

“I think you’re right, Father,” I replied after a moment of thought. “Your memory’s better than mine. We were here last Christmas Eve.”

He turned left at the top of the stairs and walked down another narrow hall. We passed several small offices and then turned into the last office at the end of the hall.

“Let’s sit over here,” Father Richardson suggested as we entered his study. He indicated an area in the corner with two wing chairs and a pair of small candle tables. “Less formal, don’t you think? Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“No thanks, Father. I’m fine. I literally just got up from dinner.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Really. But thank you anyway.”

Father Richardson settled into his chair, crossed one leg over the other and clasped his hands together in his lap.

“So what can I do for you?” he began.

I gave an uncomfortable little laugh. “I’m not sure.”

Father Richardson smiled, but he made no reply.

“I guess you’re aware that my wife died two weeks ago,” I started hesitantly. “Actually, two weeks ago this past Sunday.”

“Yes, I know. I was so saddened to hear that. Saddened and shocked. Such a young woman. Such a nice person.”

“She was, Father,” I agreed with a heavy sigh. “She was. Anyway,” I continued, “as my father probably told you when he called, I don’t have anyone I can talk to about Peggy’s death or about what I’m feeling. What I’m thinking. I can’t talk to my folks because they’re already upset enough. I mean, they’re barely able to hold themselves together, let alone help me. And I can’t talk to friends for pretty much the same reason. They’re having their own problems coping. And I don’t have anyone at work I can talk to. So that kind of leaves me alone, and my father thought you might be able to help me deal with some of the things I’m wrestling with.”