Betsy was off to Washington, D.C. for a week, followed by a ten day stint in Chicago. We managed the weekend in between together, mostly catching up on domestic chores; Friday night in the downstairs laundry room of my apartment. I watched as Betsy tossed our soiled undies together, a preview of our upcoming marriage. She inspected a tee shirt of mine, sniffed it with disgust, and tossed it into a trash can across the room.

"Hey!" I yelled. "I ran a marathon for that shirt!" I dashed over, retrieving it from accumulated fuzz balls of dryer lint and used softener sheets.

"Get back in shape and run another one," she answered with a smile. "It has a stain on it and a rip in the arm pit." The exchange was a stark testimony to the incongruities of man versus woman, and the pending adjustments of our marriage, looming ahead.

On Saturday we took in a Broadway show and Sunday a baseball game. The Red Sox were in town to take on the Yankees, a revered experience for us died hard fans. The game was a first for Betsy and the prime seats, compliments of her adoring boss. Between times we made plans for a trip to Iowa where I'd meet my in-laws for the first time and we'd firm up plans for our October wedding, to be held on Betsy's home turf. Life was moving along rapidly with our singlehood sliding toward the finish line.

Betsy's red-eye flight for Chicago left at seven and I kissed her as she stepped into her cab at the curb. I picked up a Chinese takeout of General Tao's Chicken, enough for his oriental army, and trudged up to my lonely apartment. I stopped at a bodega on the corner and bought a bottle of merlot. After gorging myself, and emptying most of the wine, I was about to cork the bottle. Instead, I finished it, while still holding on to my beloved tee shirt. Was I truly ready for matrimony? I guessed I was. I missed Betsy already and her plane hadn't left the ground. Life would be filled with mutual concessions I thought as I tucked my tee shirt into a bottom drawer.

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I telephoned Martha LeBlanc with the intent of a quick thank-you for our prior weekend visit but she was in a mood to chat.

"What did you think of Howie?" she asked.

"I felt badly for what he's gone through," I answered. "Moving forward must be difficult for him."

"He's a different person, entirely."

Her comment surprised me. "How well did you know him?"

"Annie was my friend, not Howie." There was sadness in her voice. "She and I were best pals every summer up here. Howie only came to New Hampshire a couple of times. It still makes me cry when I think of Annie, even after fifteen years."




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