TWO
Around ten-thirty we walked Dan to his car. He apologized to us unnecessarily in attempts to set straight his remarks about religion. “Christians aren’t at all to blame for my opinions,” he acknowledged. “Besides, everybody has a certain amount of growing to do, especially me. Anyway, I don’t want to discourage you from your mission.”
“No problem,” I said. “You know me. I’m a bit methodical when it comes to understanding new concepts. I’m an engineer, remember?”
We all hugged, and a moment later, Maryanne and I watched Dan’s Toyota roll off into the crisp and cloudless night.
Alone with my wife, I took the opportunity to thank her for the wonderful dinner and evening she orchestrated on my behalf. She remarked about how Dan seemed genuinely frustrated about religion. “It’s odd that he’s become so detached from the church scene, especially considering all the years when church made up a significant part of his life.”
“Interesting observation,” I said.
Next thing I knew, reality set in on me like a January frost. With a follow-up interview in Fair Hills scheduled for noon tomorrow, dinner at the governor’s mansion in the evening, and the gun rally to cover on Saturday, there would be precious little time for R&R over the next few days.
Presently, I was dead on my feet. But, at a minimum, I resolved to take Maryanne out Saturday evening for a quiet dinner and perhaps a movie. She happily accepted my offer. She also granted me a waiver on the kitchen duty, saying she would clean everything up tomorrow, her day off. For this, she got a hug and an invitation to bed. I quieted the stereo and switched off the lights. We held hands and ascended the narrow stairs to our private heaven, the bungalow bedroom suite.
Maryanne and I first met on a warm summer night in 1976. The bicentennial was in full swing with fireworks displays nightly for nearly a month. Hoopla moved from town to town, all around metro-Detroit, scheduled seamlessly, or so it appeared. Maryanne had just graduated from Michigan State with a Bachelor’s in Education and was set on fully enjoying her last summer before adulthood and career obligations. Her best friend, Susie Birnwell, had been dating Mike Powers, a close friend of mine from Royal Oak. Susie and Mike fixed us up on a blind date for one of those bicentennial nights. I agreed to the deal, not having anything better to do. Mike drove his LTD. We saw an early movie, and then drove north to see the fireworks in Lake Orion. After cruising the clogged village roads for a parking space, we hiked to Green’s Park and positioned our blanket for a good view of the fireworks and the lake. The show began at sunset. A scarlet and indigo glow in the western sky lingered over the steely water where scores of small crafts bobbed at anchor. We alternately oohed and ahhed and swatted mosquitoes under a canopy of lively, pyro-Technicolor art, stretched dome-like atop this quintessential American drama. Before the night was gone, I stole a kiss or two from Maryanne right there on the blanket. The near-deafening boom-ba-booms echoing above were more than sufficient to conceal the beating of my heart.
Recalling the scene in my mind, I remember that Mars (as Susie called her at the time, and some of us still do) wore a pair of newly cut-off jeans and a halter-top. One glimpse of her, and I was smitten like a fool. Her dark, honey-tanned legs and long, untamed hair were two of the reasons. Then there was her sense of humor, her carefree spirit, her playful nature, her radiant smile, her trim figure, her eyes... I quickly became convinced that there could be no more perfect match for me on earth. We spent nearly a month seeing each other based upon every contrivance I could muster. I remember, for instance, telling her that the best fireworks would be over the straits of Mackinac on the night of the Fourth, so we breezed up north, top down on the Corvette, over the Big Mac bridge, and then watched the show from the sandy shores of St. Ignace. She, eventually and unwittingly, fell into complete accord.
From that humble beginning until now, we have never hidden our true feelings from each other. And such sincerity has been the cornerstone of our life-long love.
Over the years I have come to see Maryanne as a more sensitive and secure person than myself, given my assortment of hard-headed opinions and quirky fears, and my need for constant recharging. She thinks clearly and loves from a pure heart. And she would always willingly give up a job or a house, packing and moving to accommodate my career advancement.
My one valiant moment in our entire union stands out as the night when I consoled her over the doctor’s definitive report that she could not conceive. We had been married a little over a year when we began to talk about children. Of course, we were apprehensive concerning money, her career, our freedom, privacy and a dozen other things. It took many a late night to strike an agreement on the topic: We would have one child (a boy, preferably), see how that went, and then consider another — but two would definitely be enough.
A year later, in an ego-rendering crash of disappointment, frustration, blame, self-pity and hopelessness, she broke down. Tests revealed that she could not get pregnant due to a congenital defect with the formation of her fallopian tubes; I cannot recall the scientific language. We could always adopt, the doctors said, or try the new, wildly speculative and hugely expensive in-vitro method, preceded by an invasive egg-extraction procedure. Somewhat uncharacteristic of myself, I was the one who maintained composure throughout. In the end, when the crying and self-blame ceased, we resigned ourselves to life alone and together — not such an unfavorable prospect when deeply in love, as we were.
Since then, she has artfully balanced two, sometimes competitive worlds: our marriage and her career as a reading specialist with the local intermediate school district. Clearly she puts us first. I tell her she’s got it made now, with a four-day work week and a job that has her motoring through the countryside nearly every day, visiting different schools. Her attitude toward work affirms my appraisal. Since we relocated here six years ago, she has been more content than I can ever remember.
Coming to the capital area had been a stroke of luck, really. So much so that, two years afterward, I easily decided to tell the GM fathers, “no, thank you,” when the next transfer notice was delivered. Oldsmobile was in the midst of a bloodletting due to poor sales and even poorer profitability. After only a couple years in Lansing, however, I’d become convinced that this city, for all of its unglamorous simplicity, was a measure beyond metro-Detroit and its daily rat race. Here I found no time-eroding traffic snarls, hardly any crime and genuine, friendly folks everywhere you went — even the U.S. Post Office personnel were polite. Oh I suppose that an hour-and-a-half commute was not completely unacceptable. Or we could have moved back; Maryanne would have supported such a decision without an argument. And alternatively, I could have petitioned for a different assignment in, say, Flint or Saginaw, or perhaps out-of-state — I was not a novice at the GM shuffle. Nevertheless, after considerable soul searching, I decided to dump the twenty-year career, my trade as an electrical engineer, a job that had been getting me down in recent years anyway, and the whole nine yards for a simpler life on the banks of the Looking Glass River.
Meanwhile, the urge to write had been building in me for years. Regrettably, too many other important priorities had always managed to win the day. So, with my small severance and Maryanne’s encouragement, I decided to try my hand at freelance journalism on the political beat. After all, I lived close to the nucleus of Michigan politics. Mustering the spirit of a newspaperman, I enthusiastically traipsed all over the Capital City looking for an angle and a living, but, unfortunately, both eluded me for over a year.
Although I had written some good pieces, or so it seemed to both Maryanne and me, nothing made it into print. Maryanne qualified for sainthood on numerous occasions during that rough stretch of endless days and sleepless nights. More than once I feared I had made the wrong decision, a deadly choice that would swallow me along with my hopes for future happiness and contentment. I was almost to the point of focusing my writing skills on an updated engineering resume and working up the courage to call Gene Hoekstra at Olds to sniff out a possible job opening through which I could come crawling back when, miraculously, I got my first break. Things began to click for me in the affluent little town of Fair Hills.
At my 25th high school reunion, a long-standing friend and school chum from Avondale High, Peter Gentry, tipped me off regarding some dissension within the Fair Hills School District in northern Oakland County. Fair Hills scores high on the desirability scale due to its idyllic setting in the hills and lakes and its reputation for excellent schools. But, according to Peter, this once tranquil and historic haven for the rich had evolved into a seething cauldron of antipathy after a recent local school board election. The century-old town was simmering with opposing viewpoints in a heated, community-wide debate.
The issue sparking the controversy was the school board’s firing of Dr. Milton Wyatt, the district’s superintendent. Dr. Wyatt had held the leadership post for eight years and was in the middle of a four-year contract at the time of his dismissal. In Peter’s opinion, Dr. Wyatt had done nothing worth a firing. Rather, the newly elected slate of school board members had simply weighed in and tilted the majority off to the right. And then, wham! They voted poor Dr. Wyatt out on his ear.
“Maybe you ought to high tail it out there to the board meeting this Wednesday evening and see what’s what,” Peter had admonished me. “There’s got to be a story there somewhere.”
So there was.
Through the bathroom doorway I see the back-lit silhouette of Maryanne’s youthful figure beneath her white cotton gown. Shapely legs, slim waist, perfect breasts — God, she is beautiful. “Don’t you think you’ll need your flannels tonight?” I call to her from my seated position on the bed.
“They’re still packed for summer. You’re going to have to keep me warm.” She’s never at a loss for playful banter. “Shame you’re too tired for a roll in the hay.”
“Says who?” I don’t want to be viewed as the party-pooper I might actually be at this hour. Besides, I am quite certain that she can revive my energy for one more heroic achievement before the moon reaches its final, summer zenith.
“But you need your rest for the big day tomorrow.”
“I’m certain it will be just another day in my life.”
She pulls back her golden locks and fashions a ponytail of sorts, then holds it high while admiring herself in profile. “I need a haircut, maybe even a new style.”
“Not if you want my opinion. You’re perfect just as you are.”
“You’re a liar.” She double loops her full mane with a bungee and lets it drop. “What do you think about one of those short styles from the sixties they’re wearing everywhere?”
“Not for me, babe.” She is obviously fishing for compliments. “I like your style almost as much as I like you. Besides, if I had hair like yours, I’d grow more of it to show up the other guys.”
“You aren’t the one with the mop. Besides, I think it’s time I took a bold step into current fashion.”
In the mirror I see her applying some cream around her eyes. “Please, no drastic measures are called for,” I say. “You’d turn heads in a peasant dress with hair down to your waist. It worked for me.”
“You are nuts! The Seventies have been over for twenty years. People want elegant these days.”
“That’s exactly my point. Your elegance can’t be hidden with a simple style.”
She casts a furtive glance my way. “Nice save, buddy.”
With graceful motion she switches off the light and then ambles over to where I sit. Gradually, my eyes adjust to the milky half-light pouring in through all four windows from the radiant moon. Maryanne falls upon me like a star out of the sky and warms me with a kiss. Magically exhilarated, I wonder why we don’t kiss more often, and all at once I am taken under in a whirl of passion.
The room is aglow with soft, blue light when I awaken. Through the side window, I find its source, a large illuminated sphere, suspended in the western sky. Three red 4s glare back at me from the bedside clock, but I am hopelessly wired against any further sleep. Maryanne is emitting deep, rhythmic breaths, so I am careful not to awaken her as I contemplate the day ahead.
A week ago I contacted Peggy Graham and set an appointment with her for noon today. A librarian in the Fair Hills District Branch and an eight-year member of the school board, Peggy is a life-long resident of Fair Hills. She has a reputation for pragmatism, a heart for students and a good head for civic matters. With her help I hope to get “up to date” on school issues for a follow-up piece I plan to write, marking the first anniversary of Rierdon’s election as governor. In addition to being the governor’s hometown, Fair Hills is the site where he first hammered the education plank onto his platform for the New Freedom.
The weather report promises a perfect day for my drive to Oakland County, and, since the interview will not be lengthy, I will have plenty of time to return, type up my notes and prepare for the grand reception at the governor’s mansion tonight at seven.
Fall is beginning early, judging by the changing hues in the fields and the colors of the hardwoods, so my trip should be especially scenic. Perhaps I’ll make a stop to pick up a gallon of freshly-pressed cider from one of Oakland County’s bountiful orchards.
The old bed squeaks and heaves as I try to rise gently without waking Maryanne. She raises an eyelid my way. “What time is it; you getting up?” She swallows a pasty mouthful of sleep. “It’s pitch dark.”
“No it isn’t. C’e la bella luce della luna.” I point to the window.
“Oh, go back to sleep. I can’t even think in English at this hour. What are you, some kind of creature who comes out with the full moon?”
“That’s not what you called me last night.”
“Last night I was acting out the part of your lover. Now I’m just plain, old Maryanne with a headache and a fool for a husband.” She rolls over and scrunches down into the tussled covers.
“I tried not to wake you, but I can’t sleep, so I’m going out for a walk.”
“Goodbye then.” She turns over with finality.
After pulling on my clothes from yesterday, I hastily brush my teeth, then gingerly pad downstairs and start a pot of coffee. The aroma of Breakfast Blend will lift Maryanne out of bed before I return. Such mischief is not my sole aim but an unintended consequence of my morning habit. I resolve to fix her favorite breakfast of French toast with strawberry syrup as penance for leaving her alone in bed.
I look away from last evening’s mess, still submerged in the sink, and glide out through the garage. The air is bracing, but there is no frost visible in the dim, pre-dawn light. I grab a flashlight to ward off any half-asleep commuters who may be dazedly making their way to work at this early hour. Down the driveway I head, onto the River Road.
Our gently winding road is not a main thoroughfare, but we get our fair share of traffic during the usual times of day. On weekends, when folks are out for country drives, we see many cars loaded down, heading to or from the nearby state park. In fall, pickups and SUVs unload their cargo of determined hunters and dogs into the state-owned wilds on the north side of the street, hoping for a day of primeval fun and a harvest of nature for their storehouses of self-worth.
For almost four years we have made our home here on River Road. As a concession to Maryanne, I agreed to move to the country since, from here, I could still be within easy commuting distance of the Olds headquarters in Lansing, and we could enjoy the beauty of the river and woods at our back door. Fortuitously, she landed her present job nearby, shortly thereafter.
The bungalow was in worse shape than we had originally estimated during our two visits with the sales agent. Our plans to do a little decorating, replace some carpeting and linoleum, and modernize the kitchen turned into a three-year, sixty-thousand dollar project. Maryanne, a master of detail, put her mark on everything from design to décor, and the contractors earned every dollar they were paid. They are most likely glad to be free of her. Happily, the bungalow turned out more to our liking than anything we expected to find. We are justifiably proud to call it home.
Smoke rises from the neighbor’s chimneys up and down the lane, curling upward into the translucent, moonlit sky. My breath comes out in visible white vapor as I walk briskly in the crisp autumn-like air. Papers have already been placed neatly in their tubes, mostly Ledgers with an occasional Free Press from Detroit. Dogs on night watch signal my presence to quiet houses, nestled in the woods. An occasional, yellow-lit window peeks through the heavy crop of foliage. A freight train rumbles on the old Grand Trunk line to the south — four mournful wails signal its approach to some dark and desolate intersection. Alive with the turning of the season and the fresh, smoky-sweet air, I spin around and jog back to the house.
Before reaching the driveway, I snatch our copy of the Ledger out of its resting place and try to decipher the headlines, but it is still too dark to read comfortably. Once inside, I snap on the kitchen light, pour myself a mug of steaming coffee and plop down at the table, quieting myself momentarily to listen for any stirrings upstairs. None are detected. Lifting the paper to reading distance, I am surprised to find the article I submitted yesterday, laid out left column, above the fold, on page one — my byline boldly featured. The headline reads: CHOICE TO VANISH UNDER NEW FREEDOM. In the right column there is an even more prominent, complimentary piece, headlined: HOUSE DEMS TO FORCE VOTE ON ABORTION AMENDMENT TODAY. A picture of legislators is sandwiched in between. Yesterday must have been a slow news day.
Scanning the second article, I glean the essence of an unlikely maneuver by the Democrats that indicates an unexpected shift in the political wind. Democrats, the majority party in the state House of Representatives, generally oppose the idea of a constitutional amendment outlawing abortion, and they had previously blocked the measure from coming up for a vote before the full house, fearing it might squeak by. Now, suddenly, the Democratic leaders have reversed their strategy and appear quite anxious to get their Republican rivals on the record through a vote in a special session scheduled for this morning at ten. One fact remains in force: If the RLA is to pass, Republicans must marshal all of their ranks plus a handful of conservative Democrats to cast “yea” votes. The Democrats, however, suspect that moderate GOP house members have been soft-pedaling support for the abortion ban, while really trying to avoid a full-throated commitment to the RLA’s support. “Yeas” from these Republicans could backfire harshly on them by rumpling moderate party females in their districts. And, as the reporter speculates, the fallout for their support of the RLA could spawn a public imbroglio at next week’s Republican convention, fracturing the Grand Old Party into two opposing camps. Evidently, the house democrat leadership decided yesterday that the RLA bill did not have the necessary votes for passage, so now they want to get everyone, especially their republican rivals, on the record in the special session this morning.
Deeply engrossed in the article — and the ramifications to the political balance of power its well-researched detail suggests — I fail to hear Maryanne’s soft approach behind me. But as she bends to gently kiss the back of my neck, I detect her sweet scent.
“Look at this,” I say, turning and holding up the paper toward her. “I’m on the Front Page.”
“Great! But you know I can’t read without my contacts. This is why you got up at five o’clock?”
I rise and give her a hug. “No, no. This is a complete surprise.” Crossing the room, I head for the cupboard to serve her some coffee. “I thought they’d probably save my piece for the Sunday edition. But it seems that late yesterday the abortion issue became the story. The Democrats are loading their guns with it and hoping to do some serious damage across the aisle.”
“You don’t say.”
“Lynn Talmadge says.”
“Will he be at the governor’s soiree tonight?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Since you’ve been thoroughly scooped, I guess I had better meet Lynn Talmadge.” She sits, then wraps her delicate fingers around the steaming mug and blows ripples across the black surface. “Can Lynn Talmadge cook?”
She’s caught me flat-footed, as usual. “Uh...no! I’m sure he can’t.”