After all this time, my wife might like some new stories
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- February 16, 2020
- 1204
I’m not one for telling tales out of school, nor am I a big fan of betraying confidences, so it’s a fine line I walk every week.
Still and all, a writer writes what he knows.
Without that underpinning his work, he’s no better than a gossip or a rumor-monger or, dare I say it, a 21st-century schizo-politician.
My wife, as faithful readers know, either by osmosis or by my repetitive insistence on accenting the essentials, is a few years older than I am.
In fact she’ll be asked to attend her 50th high school reunion soon, an invitation she will reject out of hand, despite my protestations. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from mine, should I still be around in the summer of 2023, which would be an iffy bet.
It’s not that I’m sick or anything, thankfully, but the way things are with asteroids and the climate-change bill about to be served like an overdue subpoena, long-term survival isn’t a given.
Frankly I’m lucky to have made it this far. When I think back on some of the stupid chances I’ve taken and the way I’ve tossed away brain cells like flower petals at a wedding I never should have attended, it’s a wonder I can still fabricate sentences.
But my wife isn’t like me.
She’s smarter, kinder, warmer and much better looking, not that I worry about aging gracefully, as she has. No, I’ve been going gray since my early 30s, and I’m used to avoiding mirrors or any reflective surface.
I don’t even glance at myself in the rearview unless it’s by mistake, and if that happens, I quickly erase it from my memory.
Speaking of looking back, the last time I went home was for my 45th class reunion. This would have been the summer of 2018. The sad thing is that I’ve never missed one of those get-togethers, even though high school wasn’t exactly my favorite experience, and the main reason for my faithfulness has been, ironically, my wife.
We started dating in the fall 1987. I was coming off a decade-long relationship with a woman who had been nothing but kind and caring and loving, yet I couldn’t seem to help myself from doing her wrong at nearly every turn.
I was a jackass, unrepentant and arrogant, the worst kind of jerk.
I tried to be better and succeeded for months at a stretch, but something always drew me into the darkness, back into the ditch, and she grew tired of my apologies and duct-tape efforts to save us.
She left me for good on a late-summer Sunday afternoon, having driven the 16 miles from her house to my apartment to deliver the news in person. We sat together on the sofa, holding hands, and I’ve always respected the way she simply said, “It’s been fun, but it’s over, goodbye,” and walked out the door, out of my life forever.
I saw her again at the mall around Christmastime, and I thought, momentarily, about saying hello, but there was something in her bearing, her carriage, the way she smiled at the salesgirl at the men’s cologne counter that told me to stay far, far away.
We’d both moved on by then, and her happiness was evident.
And that’s what happens.
You get over it, whatever “it” was, and you make another, better choice, one that you hope doesn’t end so badly/sadly.
So I was home in late July 2018 and I found myself in a fraternal lodge, rekindling friendships with guys I hadn’t seen since forever, just making the rounds and sharing stories with them, trying to make the minutes last longer, stepping back and pressing the details into my memory, knowing I’d be leaving too soon.
I was in that frame of mind when two men approached me. I knew them from my “glory days” on the softball diamonds of my hometown, though they’d always been on the opposing side of some very bitter battles, one of which necessitated calling the cops.
So I was a little leery as they book-ended me.
But they were all smiles and hugs and handshakes, and soon I forgot about the animosity that had fueled our previous encounters.
It turned out, though, they had something beyond fastpitch softball on their minds.
They wanted to talk to me about my wife.
“Class of 1970, man,” the onetime fearsome pitcher said. “She’s gotta come back for our 50th. She was so cool back then.”
His friend, as good a left-handed hitter as I’d ever played against, echoed those sentiments.
“So many people always ask about her,” he said. “I know she’d have the best time. We’ve missed her and want her home.”
I said I’d do what I could to convince her but that she must have stayed away all those years for a reason.
“Summer 2020,” the former hurler said. “Make sure she’s here.”
And now that’s only a few months away. I have had absolutely zero luck convincing my wife she should be part of the celebration, despite using all my positive reunion experiences as bargaining chips.
“But you’re still close with all your friends,” she’ll say. “It’s easy for you.”
And that’s true. If anything those guys and I have gotten even closer since we left high school. I’ve been to their weddings, met their children, hung out at their homes and made new memories.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s different for women. Maybe they’re more complicated.
As I’ve said, my wife is three years older. That means when I started at the high school in the fall 1970, she’d already graduated the previous June. There is no chance we’d ever walked the same hallways together.
That’s probably a very good thing because had I seen her back when she was 18 years old, there’s a very good chance I would have been completely and unceremoniously ignored.
So now how do I get her home for her 50th class reunion?
My best play is to assure her I’ll be right there with her every step of the way and that I’ll stay in the background when the spotlight shines on her, as it most certainly will.
I mean they’ve been asking for her to come home for half a century.
Not many people can say that about classmates who miss her.