by William L. Kutsch
Chapter 4
Since my first call, Trish and I spent the better part of June firing e-mails back and forth, with a few phone calls in between. The topics ranged from reunion details to expanding on personal matters we'd previously discussed. The planned transportation on reunion night consisted of a stretch Lincoln Navigator courtesy of Lynda's parents. Trish also provided me with a list of expected attendees that she'd gotten from an Internet site.
Occasionally, there'd be times when I'd be on the train, reading one of her long letters that I'd downloaded, where I'd swear that she had taped some of our earlier telephone conversations. Trish thoroughly and convincingly rebutted all the reasons I had given to her about why I had no desire to attend, like a lawyer giving his summation in court to a jury about why his client ought to prevail. This tactic didn't rise to the level of groveling, but it hovered near calculated persuasion.
In particular, she'd touched on one of my reasons/excuses rather bluntly by empathizing with me about the complete and total noncommunication between me and my best friend growing up, Marty Weems - the only 18-year-old who'd attended my graduation party. The rest of the people there were relatives. Marty was the one true pal.
Looking back, of all the guys and girls I had graduated with, of all the kids I had known as a youth, I'd have wagered handsomely that Marty would have been the one that kept in touch with me. We'd played every sport imaginable together. A big kid, wiry, strong, a tenacious defender during one-on-one basketball. He always wore his dark hair short even when long hair was in. I remember how we used to watch hockey in his basement on a black-and-white TV.
Well, I thought he'd stay in the picture after graduation. Hah. No dice. He too was off to some college, Incommunicado University I think it was, and he subsequently disappeared. I mean, I even called his mother to ask for his address, and after three letters to his dorm, I had gotten the hint and saved the postage. Following the third no reply, the temptation nearly increased to the point where I wanted to write and explain to him that I'd been inflicted with a terminal illness and would be dead in six months, almost forcing some form of a response, but decided against it. And to think he used to live two houses away.
Therefore, like a caring soul, Trish empathized with my story of "Marty, The Vanishing Man," and offered up the current state of affairs about a falling out with a close relative of hers - she didn't name names - as another sad and unfortunate example of lack of contact.
It seems whatever hurt had occurred in Trish's life, both adolescent and adulthood, she told me that nothing pained her more than that family stalemate. Although she never went into any detail - nor did I ask - Trish told me that she constantly tried to calm the roiled waters, without any success. She became increasingly frustrated, enough for her to mention it to me in her e-mails in rather exasperated terms. Trish's opinion was: "Life is short, work it out, it's family, and without family, what do you have?"
The relative had two young children, I was told - so I surmised the relative was a sister - therefore, Trish had to resort to seeing them at her parents' house during weekend sleepovers, forcing her into a reluctant state of acceptance of the situation. After hearing her tale and her frustration, I didn't care after all that Mr. Martin Weems had forgotten that friends usually pick up a pen and write. It just didn't matter that much any more.
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