by William L. Kutsch
Chapter 3
(Read chapter's 1 and 2 in our Archives)
Naturally, I'd call Trish that night. Deep down I knew I should. I was sitting at my computer desk, trying to find someone to e-mail or a Website to visit, but the phone kept staring me in the face.
Pick it up and call her. It's okay. Besides, it won't cost anything. It's a toll-free number.
"Hello" came the raspy voice from the other end of the phone.
Since I didn't recognize it, I thought I had dialed the wrong number. And was that a southern accent? "Ah . . . hello. Trish?"
"Yeah! Hi, Bobby," she exclaimed.
I surmised she hadn't read in the Three Village Herald that I had excised the "-by" from my name the week after graduation. "Oh, hi. I - I didn't recognize your voice. I guess it's been a while," I stumbled to say. I attributed the raspiness in her voice to her failing to quit smoking, but I'd chastise her about this later. "How did you know it was me?" I asked, anxious to find out.
"Well, we have caller ID on the business phone. It said 'New York' so I figured it was you. Plus my mother doesn't usually call me this late."
"I see. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that you have Call Waiting too," I said.
"Sure," she replied. "This way if Carl calls, I can talk to him if I'm on the line. That's my husband. He's on the road a lot. Did your mom tell you?"
"Oh, yes. She definitely did. And she probably got your life story out of you. I hope you didn't think she was being nosy."
"No, absolutely not. I always liked your mom. It was funny, when I called, she answered, and I told her who I was and started to explain how I knew you."
Obviously, Trish hadn't realized how engaging in such an exercise would prove unnecessary since my mother always remembered whom all three of her sons had dated.
"And I'm sure she didn't need the explanation," I said.
"No. Not at all," Trish chuckled.
Oh, my. There's that little laugh I used to hear.
"We had a nice talk, your mother and I. And I assume she told you why I was calling?"
"So I see Florida is still hot these days. Wasn't it near ninety today?"
Trish saw right through this smoke screen. "Stop it right now," she scolded. "It took a lot of nerve to get me to this point. And after your mother's 'Well, you'd better do some fast talking,' I took that to mean it was going to be hard to convince you."
"You know, Trish, I have one thing to get off my mind before I forget."
"What's that?"
"Boar's Head."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing."
"Okay."
"Seriously, I have to tell you where I stand on this," I began. "First I received an invitation in the mail, then Heidi's sending me an online application rerouted through South Carolina, then I get this phone call. I mean, it's - it's like a conspiracy here, you know? This did not happen ten years ago."
"But I thought if . . . "
"Just hear me out a sec," I interrupted, not wanting to lose my tempo. "Now I know you'd like for me to go to this - this reunion thing, and for every reason you can give me for going, I can give you two for why I shouldn't."
"Hey, time out here," Trish said, jumping in before my lecture got off the ground. "First of all, I haven't begged you and I'm not going to. Second of all, I went to the tenth, had a great time - I mean great - and heard your name mentioned more times than I should really admit to you." She played that male-ego angle like a pro.
I paused a second to absorb her parry. I mean, Trish had scored a couple of points and I had to recover. "Wow, Trish. You know what? You're starting to sound like that smooth-talking car salesman barking about why I absolutely must buy this new car. But the bottom line is, no matter how convincing he sounds, I always have the last word: No." The silence on the other end of the telephone lasted a few seconds. I strained to hear some sound, wondering whether I'd made her cry. If so, I certainly was doing a bad job endearing myself after twenty years. Thankfully, she said the next word without hint of a sniffle but with determination.
"Okay. Okay. Be that way. I can see you're going to make this difficult." She sighed, "Won't you at least say that you'll consider it? You're not still mad that your name was spelled wrong in the yearbook, are you? Have you been holding grudges that long?"
Trish had been referring to when the yearbook printers had screwed up royally by omitting the second "E" from my last name. After standing in line in the cafeteria to receive our copies, I jammed mine into my bag in disgust on seeing "Robert Kean" printed in there. They might as well have put "Bobby" there too, just to double the humiliation. Or even "Bobbie."
Thumbing through the yearbook later after I had calmed down, I noticed that it revealed not a single photograph of me, other than the main picture. Of course, near the back of the book, the sports pages displayed images of me the size of a Tic-Tac in distant group shots, which were abysmal in quality. Naturally, I wasn't AWOL during high school when someone took all these on-campus, spur-of-the-moment photos. My problem stemmed from not getting on the yearbook committee or being friends with one of their members. They were mostly Gelinas people anyway. How absurd the thought that I had to pay for this keepsake.
"C'mon. You really will have fun. A lot of people are going." She continued to list the name of alumni, not to mention her own cadre of five girlfriends with their husbands, who planned on attending. The logistics entailed meeting at Lynda's house, having some noshes, getting in a stretch limo, and going to the banquet hall. Nothing unseemly there. Trish told me that her husband intended to go and that he thought it might be "a blast" if I would go too. This guy sounded like a real cut-up.
"You're serious about this," I said rhetorically.
"Naturally."
"Well, I don't think you're ever going to let me say no to you." I'd tried to throttle back on the tone.
"So you'll go? Is that a yes?" She sounded so optimistic. Too bad I had to throw a wet blanket on her.
"Not exactly, Trish," I said with a slight chuckle to ease the pain. "I had planned on my fortieth birthday being the next crisis in my life, if I can use that expression. This thing may put me over the edge before then. But this much I will do: Send me another copy of the invitation, e-mail me some photos of you so I can satisfy my curiosity, and let me digest all this and sleep on it. Okay?"
"Well, okay. That's better than 'no.'"
#
We spent the balance of our call covering many topics. Recounting our respective failed first marriages, we shared survival stories and observations on divorce, comparing it to death but with the former spouse still walking the earth - sometimes acting vengefully. Trish's ex regrettably fit that particular category. However, he'd displayed peaceful behavior of late, undoubtedly having heeded the restraining order served on him. I told her that her subsequent move south was ultimately her best defense.
After hearing her story, I said to her, "Now I feel like I've experienced a painless divorce in comparison to what you've gone through. I have two daughters and a visitation schedule with an insecure, but at least unthreatening ex-spouse."
"Is she still insecure?"
"I haven't asked."
She listened with interest in how a single man spends his time on Long Island. "Where do you look for girlfriends?" she asked. "How many blind dates have you had?"
"Well," I admitted, scribbling nothing in particular on a desk pad, "working in Manhattan as a court reporter requires long commutes and countless hours out of my home, as you can imagine. My dates usually come through introductions by common friends and helpful Long Island Rail Road conductors. That way, I avoid surprises."
"Hey, Bobby, let me know if you need any dating tips. I know what colors look good on you, too."
I changed gears and asked about her new hubby Carl. Trish said he was a loquacious man, but a bit unpolished. She met him at a Baptist church - she had converted - and his caring heart drew her attention more so than his physique. The sedentary nature of being a truck driver, she explained, created his pear-shaped appearance. Even so, she loved her "big teddy bear." They both were happy, in love, and longed having a child, if biology only cooperated.
I explained to her how being a single father meant seeing my kids only on the weekends, and how melancholy and eerily quiet the drive home was on Sunday night following the scheduled drop-off, knowing they'd soon be tucked into bed by someone other than their dad that night and the next eleven.
"Divorce is like surgery without anesthesia, wouldn't you say, Trish?"
"Yes, but it still made me numb."
"Amen."
#
Oddly, though, for an intensely private person, I grew amazed that I was sharing my life's personal details. I trusted that my comments in response to hearing Trish's own biography did not make her feel this chat was one-sided. I pushed the logic forward, thinking how going to a reunion may force me to continue to open up my diary, and I wasn't sure if that situation appealed to me. Therefore, deciding whether I would attend needed some careful deliberation.
"Do you think you're getting old, Trish?"
"Aren't we all? Let me know if anyone's getting younger," she flippantly replied.
"Yeah, right. I mean, do you have aches and pains - you know, even small ones - that nag you, or trips to the dentist that hurt more than they used to?"
"Let me guess . . . so you don't want to go with me because you're having a midlife crisis ten years early?"
"Well -"
"I just need to see where you're coming from."
This was developing into the Scandinavian version of water torture.
"I'm coming from the realist's point of view."
"Hey, Bob. I've got news for you. All our classmates are the same age, so you'll have a whole bunch of people to share your insecurities with, okay?"
"Okay."
"And you're not being a realist. You're being a defeatist."
"Touché, Trish." She had a knack for slapping me in the face with her bluntness.
But I had to admit that her ability to have rattled off those names, occupations, and areas of residence of people with whom we had graduated impressed me. And I mulled over whether she had employed this tactic by design as I didn't find myself tuning out and changing the subject. My interpretation: She's planting seeds.
Suddenly, a sour taste hit my tongue. "Trish, you've mentioned a whole bunch of people. Did Glendon Alton go to the tenth?"
"No. Why?"
"If I'd gone with you then, only to see him laughing and joking with the people he used to bully, my night would have been ruined." He'd specialized in picking on smaller kids in the hallway, always for no reason.
"Well, he wasn't there and I don't know if he's coming. Hopefully he's matured, Bobby."
"Yeah? Maybe he's got a chip on his shoulder instead."
"You should listen to yourself speak before you make that comment about someone else."
From my perspective, this back-and-forth was shaping up to make for a long night.
#
I'd walked to the fridge to grab a soda, listening to her on my cordless. Throughout our conversation, I'd noticed that Trish sprinkled in occasional so-am-I-convincing-you comments, like croutons on a salad. I mean, their presence varied between persuasiveness and pestering annoyance, as if I was talking to a telemarketer. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, however, I tried to look at the circumstances from her shoes: "I have to wear down a stubborn man slowly." Could she possibly be winning the battle? Time would only tell. But that accent was staring to wear on me . . .
"Stay in touch, Bobby, ya hear?" came the fake drawl at the end of our chat.
"Will do, Trish."
#
I hung up the phone, looked at my watch, and realized that two hours had passed, and that when we last had spent that amount of time on a phone, it had been of the rotary variety, there was no such thing as Call Waiting, and neither of us had been paying the bill.
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