“How long were you and your husband together?” Vincent asked without looking up from his plate.
“I met him in Middle School.” Clara answered. “We started dating in high school and then got married right after graduation. We were married for 58 years.”
Vincent took off his hat and looked at her for a second before asking, “Any kids?”
“We never had children, no.” Clara turned away from his unwavering gaze, turning her attention to the neatly trimmed flower beds along the back fence for a while. “It was the greatest disappointment of our lives—not having children. But it just wasn’t meant to be.”
Vincent took the last fork full of potato salad then wiped his mouth with the linen napkin beside his plate.
“How in the world is it possible to be married for 58 years?” Vincent smiled and shook his head from side to side in genuine amazement.
Clara smiled back and asked a question of her own. “Are you married Vincent?”
It was his turn to avert his gaze to the freshly tended back yard. It would be best if he just made up a lie. It would have saved him the embarrassment of having to admit to such a colossal failure. Clara would have no frame of reference for what it was like today. She wouldn’t possibly have been able to understand. Her generation stayed together forever. He didn’t want to face the judgement that was sure to come his way if he told the truth, no matter how kind her eyes felt when she looked at him. It would be a repeat of the night that he told his parents that his second marriage was over less than 18 months before it started. They had cut him off, ashamed of his moral failings and tired of being disappointed.
But when he opened his mouth to answer, the words had surprised him, “Not anymore, Ms. Clara.”
“So you’re divorced?”
Vincent glanced down at his hands folded neatly in his lap. “Twice.”
Her response was direct but flowed freely from her without a hint of judgement or disapproval, “Goodness. How is it possible to have been divorced twice before age 30?”
“If you answer my question, I’ll try to answer yours.”
“I’m sorry, my dear, what was your question?”
“I asked you how it was possible to be married for 58 years.”
“Oh yes, now I remember.” Clara stopped for a moment to think before offering an answer to such a question. It was not something she had spent a lot of time pondering. She had been too busy with living life which had left little time for deep thoughts about the whys and hows.
“I’m not sure I know the answer to your question Vincent. I suppose the best I can offer is that we worked hard at it. There were wonderful times through our many years together…but we had our share of heartache and disappointments. In the end, we loved each other warts and all.”
Vincent believed her. But her words had wounded him. The truth was that he had never loved anyone more than he loved his own desire, his own way. He had discovered too late that his brand of selfishness wasn’t comparable with marriage. He decided to tell the truth.
“Well, the way you manage to have two divorces before you’re 30 is to get caught cheating on both of your wives. Yeah. So it was my fault. Both of them. Not proud of myself. But that’s the truth.”
Clara looked deeply into his eyes. The clouds of trouble hanging over him had darkened. He took a final drink of his tea. Clara reached across the table and grasped his hand in hers. “How about we have some ice cream?”
Before he could answer she had made her way inside the house leaving Vincent to make sense of what was happening to him. What was he doing here at this old woman’s broken down house confessing his sins to a complete stranger? Why had it felt good to admit to this kind old widow what an absolute bastard he was? He had another job to get to, an actual paying job, he didn’t have time to eat strawberry ice cream with an octogenarian…but here he was listening to another question—“Do you have children?”
“Yes. Two girls. Both with my first wife.”
“Oh my…” Clara, for the first time, looked disappointed. “How often do you get to see them?”
“Just one weekend a month. They live with their mother up in Cambridge, a little over an hour away.”
“I’m sorry, Vincent. I imagine that its quite difficult for you.”
“Don’t feel sorry for me, Ms. Clara.” Vincent answered honestly. “I was a cheater, remember? I brought it all on myself.”
“Yes. You did.” Clara’s face changed expression. Her eyes had taken on a pensive distance, along with the beginnings of tears. “I cheated on Harold once.”
Vincent couldn’t help himself. “What??”
A brief playful smile played across Clara’s face for an instant. “I am an old woman, Vincent. I will excuse you for not thinking me capable of infidelity.”
Then the distance returned and she began to tell her story.
“We had only been married for a couple of years when Harold enlisted in the Army. I begged him not to but my Harold was a patriot through and through. All I was thinking about was the war. But there was no changing his mind so off he went to Fort Dix for basic training. It was the first time in my life that I was alone. Before long he was shipped to Vietnam where he stayed for over two years. He got shot twice but the fool kept re-upping. I was angry and inconsolable for most of those two years.”
As she was talking it occurred to Clara that she had never before this strange moment shared her story with another human being. As she spoke, the memories that her words released swept over her.
“One night I found myself in a bar that Harold and I used to go to after we were married and who should I run into but Burt Wilks, Harold’s best friend and the best man at our wedding. Burt was a year behind us in school but the two of them had been inseparable growing up. I hadn’t seen him for quite a while at that point so we sat together and caught up…and drank quite a few beers, not that that’s some kind of excuse. Anyway, I just remember feeling dangerous and angry. Before I knew it there we were back in my tiny little apartment waking up the next morning and going at it again. It went on for a week or more until we both had had enough. After that we went our separate ways, and I was never again unfaithful to Harold.”
Vincent had been mesmerized by the tale and by Clara’s willingness to share it but it felt unfinished. “What did Harold do when he found out?”
“He never found out because I never told him.” Clara’s voice was unwavering and unapologetic. “It was a week of weakness and selfishness on my part and nothing more. I didn’t tell him because it would have served no purpose other than breaking his heart.”
“But what about Burt? They were best friends. How did that work out?”
“It didn’t.” The very first tears of the telling appeared. “Burt followed Harold to Vietnam where he was killed five months into his tour. For the longest time I felt a measure of guilt for his death—like maybe he was too reckless a soldier because he had betrayed his best friend…with me.”
They both fell silent gazing at the reinvigorated back yard. Vincent felt a knot rising in his throat. Then he heard his unrecognizable voice—“why did you tell me that story?”
Once again Clara leaned forward to hold Vincent’s hand across the table. “I told you that story because you need to understand that you can’t let your very worst moments define you for the rest of your life. We all have it within us to do better, to be better. We just need a little encouragement, that’s all.”
Vincent looked at her with tenderness and gratitude. He hoped that it was true. He hoped that she was right, that better was possible.
He helped Clara clear off the table. They carried the dishes into the kitchen. He watched her stack them on a rubber mat next to the sink, noticing that she had no dishwasher.
“So, you live in this big old house all by yourself? Who looks after you?”
Clara placed a plug in the drain and began filling the sink with warm water. “Just me. Most of the time I do alright, but every once in a while I find that I must rely on the kindness of strangers.”
Vincent picked up the dish towel that was hanging on the stove handle and began drying the hot plates in the dish drain. “In this city, relying on the kindness of strangers is probably very hit or miss, I would imagine.”
Clara smiled as she scrubbed the ice cream bowls. “Well, just a week ago you were a stranger. So, I guess some days are better than others.”
Clara walked Vincent down the front sidewalk to his truck, thanked him for her beautiful yard then gave him a tender hug. Vincent reached in his pocket and placed a business card in her hand. It had the logo of Bianchi’s Landscaping across the front. On the back Vincent had written out his cell phone number. “Listen Clara, I want you to promise me that if you ever need something you will call me on this number. I don’t live far from you and it wouldn’t be any trouble at all. Ok?”
Vincent drove away, glancing back at her through the rear view mirror, with tears in his eyes.
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