When we were 19, my best friend and I promised that if we were both single at 60, we’d find each other — I turned 60 last Tuesday, and my old landline rang.
When we were 19, my best friend and I promised that if we were both single at 60, we’d find each other — I turned 60 last Tuesday, and my old landline rang.
Gil and I became best friends at seventeen.
Not boyfriend and girlfriend. Just Gil and Lorna.
He went out with other girls. I went to the leavers’ dance with somebody else. Everybody in Rowe’s Mill said we would work it out eventually, and the two of us used to laugh about it, because losing the friendship seemed far more frightening than risking it on a feeling neither of us could have named at that age.
One night in the July we were nineteen, after two spectacularly bad dates, we ended up sitting under the bleachers at the football field with a bag of chips between us.
And Gil held out his little finger and said: “If we’re both on our own at sixty, we stop being idiots and we find each other.”
“Deal.”
Eight weeks later he left for Kell State, three hundred miles away.
At first we wrote constantly. Then less. Then a letter took a month.
And by the time I had worked out — properly worked out, sitting on the end of my bed at twenty — that I had been in love with him since I was seventeen, Gil was writing to me about a girl he had met at college.
In the August of 1986 one last letter came.
He was getting married.
And at the bottom, in a different-coloured pen, he asked me not to contact him again.
I cried for about three weeks and then I did what he asked, because he had asked.
I never married. When people asked why, I said I never met the right one, which is the sentence you use when you want the conversation to stop.
It was not true. I met him at seventeen.
Last Tuesday.
I turned sixty on Tuesday.
And that evening the landline rang in my mother’s house, which is now my house, on the table in the hall where it has been since 1979.
Almost nobody rings it. I nearly did not answer.
“Is that Lorna?”
“Yes.”
“My name’s Sam. I’m Gil Haverty’s son.”
Something went through me from the scalp down.
“My dad would like to speak to you. He hasn’t got long.”
A rustle, a hand over a receiver, a chair.
And then a voice I had not heard for forty-one years.
“Lornie.”
“You remembered.”
A small laugh, most of it breath. “I remembered every birthday.”
And then it broke.
“Lornie. There’s something I need you to know before I go.”
“What?”
“I was in love with you when we made that promise.”
I sat down on the stairs.
“And I’d already bought the ring.”
“What ring?”
“The one I was going to give you before I left.”
“Then why did you marry somebody else?”
And he started to cry, which I had heard him do exactly twice in my life.
“That’s what I’ve spent forty years wishing I could explain.”
And then, very quietly: “Please come. There’s something here you need to see. When you’ve seen it you’ll understand why I walked away.”
St Ansel’s.
Forty minutes. I have never driven like that in my life and I am not proud of it.
He was in a side room on the fourth floor and he was thin in the way that tells you everything, and his hair had gone white, and he was completely and unmistakably himself.
But it was not Gil that made the noise come out of me.
It was what was on the chair beside the bed.
A shoebox.
Brown card, soft at the corners, mended along one edge with tape that had gone the colour of tea.
And on the lid, in black marker, in my handwriting, aged eighteen:
***GIL — BOOTS — 9***
I bought him those boots for Christmas in 1983 with money from a Saturday job at the bakery. I wrote that on the lid myself so he would not shake it.
That box has been through four houses, three states and forty-one years, and it was sitting on a plastic chair in a hospital in Rowe’s Mill with a ring box on top of it.
What was in it.
Forty-one birthday cards.
Addressed. Stamped. Never posted.
One for every year from 1985 to this one, in order, oldest at the bottom, each one with the year written in the corner in pencil.
Post Comment