A Golden Marriage

Her memory dispatched itself on its mission. No need to make a conscious effort to send it rummaging among the dusty piles of her life experiences. Her memories stirred, oddly enough, by her present. Why that should be was a trifle confusing. Why, she wondered, would she dredge all that up in her mind, at a time when there didn’t appear any reason to. It happened so long ago, was an anomalous occurrence, and she’d been so young, so inexperienced.

This was a special occasion. Well, she considered life in general to be special, and occasionally not. Everything about her quotidian life was special, though. And the way she felt about her husband, well, she cherished him, was restless away from him. His mind fascinated her by the generosity of its content (its comprehensive scope), his store of acquired knowledge, his interests he always shared with her - not that she was always happy to share them; their interests did not always converge. But his smile lit her soul, his hugs warmed her heart, his presence comforted her. They had been together a very long time.

Back then, during the time her memory nudged into mind, she had been captivated, entranced, swept away by the heady romance of a young man determinedly directing his energies toward attracting her to him. As though that would have been difficult.

She’d met him at her aunt’s house. He was with her two older cousins, a new friend. A handsome, muscularly compact college student, studying architecture. He had a confident presence, an assured manner that struck her. He was definitely an adult, mature well beyond her years. And he was interested in her, and she found that amazing. She felt herself to still be an awkward kid. Nothing particularly distinguishing about her; not very pretty, not that interesting, just herself.

He had an odd accent. Not surprising. He was new to his adopted country that had so recently absorbed him as an immigrant - a refugee, actually. From one of the displaced persons camps that abounded in war-torn Europe. All his family had been obliterated in the Holocaust. He would be starting an entirely new life. In the country that he understood had been hugely instrumental in liberating Europe from the looming possibility of thrall to the 1000-year Reich.

In very point of fact, he looked precisely like the Aryan ideal of the perfect male figure, absent a cap of blond hair. How many Germans or Austrians (or Italians or Japanese - honourary Aryans as an integral part of the Axis), sported blond locks? His hair was dark brown, almost black. His eyes, she recalled were deep brown pools of anguished memory. It was clear, even to her, even as the young girl she was back then, steeped in her own Jewish heritage sans the religious part, and having been aware at a young age of how the Nazis had targeted Jews, that he was intent on forging his way.

She was thrilled that he was interested in her. She hardly understood why. He was six years older than her, and that age differential placed him in an entirely different dating game, if she could call it that. She thought she was almost pretty, held back though by the fact that she was physically un-sensuous to say the least, not remotely endowed with soft curves; hardly the outline to entice a mature male to cast his attentions upon. She felt, at one and the same time, flattered and frightened. What on Earth could he possibly see in her?

Still, she was young enough and imbued with enough vanity to accept her appeal to him. She felt, actually, like a country bumpkin next to his cosmopolitan elegance. For he was elegant; the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, the patience he exhibited in explaining things to her, introducing her to world affairs in a way she had never quite thought of. And then, suddenly the two weeks were over, and she and her mother were returning to Canada on the long train journey that would take them home.

She hadn’t felt guilty about her brief and exciting time with him. Her boyfriend, the one whom she had dated steadily for the past three years, was her own age. That, now, seemed passe. Two kids pretending to be adults, pretending to be deeply involved with one another, pretending that their futures lay together, pretending that they shared a deep and abiding love. After her short exposure to having a man turn his attention on her, she thought of her link with her boyfriend as expendable, juvenile, a nuisance.

For on her return home there was a letter already waiting for her, from him. He would be coming to visit with her in Toronto. He’d been drafted into the military to do his stint, and before he became really involved, he would come and visit. She had explained to her boyfriend that everything was off. She had met someone. Someone else to whom she was more attracted than to him. He’d been devastated, watching her lips form the words that seemed to destroy him. She shrugged mentally; he was young, he would find someone else.

She felt badly for him, but excited for herself. Three years earlier when they had first met at a party, she had felt a shock of recognition. Before she even turned fourteen she’d had dreams of meeting someone. Her dreams had etched that figure for her, even the face. She yearned for that person to appear in her life. And when he had, at a casual party, when they were both only fourteen, she recognized the boy of her dreams. He’d laughed when she said that, and she’d felt insulted. Which hadn’t stopped her from pursuing him. Eventually he succumbed, and they became inseparable.

She attended a commercial high school, he a collegiate. She had no special aptitudes, but he was, though a few months younger than her, in a higher grade, played school football, excelled in all his subjects. She was more than satisfied with his companionship, found it thrilling and compelling to think of herself as having a regular boyfriend. He would visit her often after school, and they’d go for long neighbourhood walks. On the week-ends, they would go to social club dances. They hung out with a group of others their own age.

The only disturbing element in all of this was her parents’ attitude toward him. He was a nice boy, they said, but he didn’t come from a good family, and they’d prefer her to distance herself. Her mother, in fact, forbade her on several occasions from seeing him again. Which she neatly ignored. But then, she was late one day for a baby-sitting assignment because she’d been out with him and forgotten the time, and she was told in no uncertain terms - this time by her father - that she was instructed to break off her friendship.

This was no friendship, she grieved, this was someone she loved. They couldn’t do this to her. So she met him covertly, at times and in places where she knew she could cover for herself. Eventually, though, the truth revealed itself and her parents relented. What else could they do, after all?

And then came that fateful trip with her mother who wanted to visit her older sister who lived with her family in the United States. And her introduction to this exciting young man, whose appeal was such that she decided she saw more in him than in her long-time boyfriend.

She tried to persuade her younger sister, then fourteen, that she should think about looking at her old boyfriend as a possibility for herself. As though through suggesting it she could manipulate such an outcome. Her boyfriend’s sister telephoned her to tell her that he was disconsolate, she found him weeping often in utter despair, and their mother hardly knew what to do for him. She tried to ignore him when she saw him hovering near her home - far from his own - on the off-chance he could see her, persuade her to change her mind. She had no such intention. She ignored his pleading presence.

By then she had left school, was out in the workforce. She worked for a health insurance company, on St.Clair Avenue, in Toronto, across from Peter Pan park. Before she had so harshly parted with him, he would occasionally meet her after work - he was still attending school - and go along home with her. Now, with their having parted, things were different. He no longer had any place in her life. She would exit the building, walk briskly along the street, and wait to catch her bus to take her home.

She often saw him across the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of her. It irritated her. Made her feel badly for him. Guilty. Not her fault. His problem. He just had to get over it. Why he thought she was such a catch was beyond her, anyway. She no longer thought that way about him. He just had to surrender to reality.

By then she’d had more than one visit from her mature and handsome boyfriend. Once, they’d gone to Niagara Falls, just the two of them. She was surprised her parents had given permission. They’d caught a bus at the terminal downtown and driven to Niagara Falls. She’d never been there before. He had thought it might make a fun trip. By the time they arrived it was dark. She saw the famed falls in the dark. Felt the soft mist fall upon her, as though blessing this union. They walked, hand-in-hand, to a nearby park, sat on a bench and kissed passionately. In a few hours they rushed to catch the bus returning to Toronto.

He had groped her breasts, and she was excited and breathless about it. Worried, too. Because they were so … insignificant. She thought he would realize she was too immaturely formed, not exciting enough, hardly material for an ongoing relationship. He would look around, make comparisons, find someone else. And she’d be left.

Of course it wasn’t the first time a man had touched her breasts. Her young boyfriend always did that, and the touch elicited the same sense of physical enticement, and excitement that she’d experienced now. She compared her reactions to each. Thought of how hard and muscular his neck was when she wound her arms around it, pulling his head down to hers for a long embrace and kiss. Tried to recall whether her old boyfriend felt like that. It was so compelling, so irresistible, so amazingly exciting, that hard, muscular neck on his hard, muscular body.

But she was familiar with another hard, very well-muscled body, one she had seen unclothed, and whose conformation and bulging manhood had delighted and intrigued her, reminding her of statues she had seen of Greek male beauty. No, they had never had sex, that is penetrating sex. They had shared other urgencies of sexual gratification, never the final one.

Finally, once he had returned back to the U.S. after his second visit with her, when she had known him over a six-month period, she had second thoughts. She missed her young boyfriend. She began to recall all the time they had spent together, the activities they had shared, the long, intimate conversations and even more intimate physical passion. But really, it was what she knew of him, how well she knew him, his thoughts, his feelings. She was flooded with shame that she had so lightly, effortlessly discarded all that. She missed him. Terribly.

She sat herself down and wrote a long letter of explanation. To her U.S. suitor. She tried to be honest. Said how much she appreciated that he liked her company. She reciprocated, she said, she had enjoyed being with him. But she had reconsidered. She found it, she said, difficult to reconcile herself to the loss of her boyfriend with whom she’d shared three years of companionship. So the letter he was receiving was to inform him that she had decided she would no longer wish to see him. She would try to make amends to her boyfriend, ask him to forgive her.

She did that. She telephoned him. She heard the gasp in his voice when she quietly asked him to overlook what she had done. She wanted to see him. She wanted to explain her rash behaviour, her regret for what she put him through. And hoped he would agree to see her. Would want to see her, so they could talk about things. Put things into perspective, decide whether it might be possible to gap the void of the unfortunate six months, and try anew to re-forge their relationship.

She'd heard - a few years back - more, actually than a few years - from one of her cousins in casual conversation thanks to the Internet and email, that their mutual friend was a successful architect with a prosperous well-connected firm of his own, in Hawaii. Married, two children. That oddly enough, spurred memory of his long-ago careful scrutiny of her hands, his comments on how delicately well-formed they were, her nails perfect ovals, his recommendations that she take better care of them…

The little dog they had brought into their household many years after their children had moved out to form households of her own, was verging on 17. She was still bright and lively, energetic and clever. Her husband absolutely doted on the little thing. As he had doted, albeit differently, on her too over the years.

Theirs was a golden marriage, in so many ways. At intervals he bought her gold bangles to wear on her wrists. Later, when they could afford such baubles, when the children were older. The first one when they’d visited Washington for the first time, spending a week there looking at the museums, the art galleries. Another for her fiftieth birthday, an Italian bracelet, spiralled and heavy with gold. She has never taken either off her wrists.

In a month she will have her 73rd birthday. Elderly, like their little dog. Her dark hair has turned silver. Their little dog, black in puppyhood, now has grey sprouting in the strangest places; on her chin, under her tail, the joints of her legs. But she’s still sprightly, still engaged with love of life. So too is she. Still engaged with the love of her life.

He just cannot keep a secret. He’s already given her the birthday gift he’s bought. Another gold bracelet. It will join the others on her wrist. He’ll artfully create a birthday card as he usually does, to present to her on her birthday.