Women

I love women. All kinds of women. Women who dance, women who smoke, women who wear red dresses to church every Sunday. Women who don’t wear make-up, and women who can name every nation in the world. But the most memorable one I ever met was a woman who played music that could move my jaded soul. Her name was Donnatella.

She was the jazz singer in that bar you couldn’t bear to frequent because it was just too hip for you. That girl who’d steal your heart without so much as a sidelong glance; who’d break that heart without so much as a second thought; and who’d then call you at two in the morning, saying she needed you so badly it hurt.
And you’d take her back.

You’d take her back because she was your little angel-devil paradox woman, and you were lucky she even knew your name.

That was my Donna.

***

The first time I saw her, she was sitting on the stone wall that enclosed the local park. The fifth string of her guitar had snapped, but she ignored it, singing whatever
came to mind and swaying in time with her rhythm. She always sang with her eyes closed.

I let my Springer spaniel, Max, off the leash, and he roamed free around the field as I stood and watched my Donna play. I was only twenty-three at the time, but never before in my life had I seen such a beautiful woman. Long brown hair rested on her shoulders, and freckles dusted her nose. Her shoes rested on the ground below her.
I loved her instantly.

Her voice carried easily to where I stood a few yards away, watching her lips form the vowels and consonants perfectly. The sound reminded me so much of when my mother used to sing me to sleep, before I grew old enough to know that it wasn’t cool to like it.

And then her song was over. She strummed the last chord quietly, with an air of self-satisfaction. Slowly she opened her pretty blue eyes to the world.

I finally realized I’d been rudely staring, and I tried to duck out of sight behind the pillar where the stone wall ended, but she noticed me. Much to my surprise, she smiled.

“Bravo,” I said, awkwardly taking a few steps forward. I wrapped Max’s leash around my wrist and shoved my hands into my pockets – as much as I loved women, they made me uncomfortable, and clumsiness, not often one of my traits, tended to kick in whenever a member of the fairer sex was present. It was now that grace chose to fail me; I stubbed my toe on the same pillar from which I had sought shelter not ten seconds before. Now, in later years, I’ve taken to blaming that pillar for the heartache.

Needless to say, she laughed as I hopped idiotically around in a circle, dropping the leash in the process.

“Here,” she said, picking up the leash and handing it to me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I could feel my ears turning beet red. I prayed to God she wouldn’t notice. I thanked her for the leash and wrapped it back around my arm.

Horribly awkward silence followed.

You should just go, James. Tell her it was nice meeting her, and go find Max. This is useless.

“My name is Donna, by the way,” she said, holding out her hand to me.

And we shook hands, and hers was strong and warm, and I knew that I wanted her to be mine.

“I’m James.”

And so it began.

***

Weekends were the best. The days, we’d walk along the river, hand in hand. She’d get ice cream from the vendor, and I’d watch her eat, kissing chocolate away when it would get on her chin. When it rained, we’d hide in the corners of the library. She was one of Shakespeare’s more avid admirers; I read Robert B. Parker novels. Each made fun of the other, and we were happy.

The nights, she’d invite me into her tiny house. She lived on the bottom floor of a small establishment; a kind old widower lived upstairs. As far as I could tell, my Donna rented with money she received from her father, a very successful lawyer who wanted everything for his only child. My Donna needed no money of her own. She could work on her novel in peace, and she’d never have to worry about where she’d find her next meal.

After I’d called my neighbor, Mrs. Gladstone, and ask her to once again feed Max for the night, I’d make macaroni and cheese in the microwave. She’d sit on the counter with her guitar and try to remember old Beatles tunes. Her hair would fall in front of her eyes; I’d always lose my train of thought. She’d call me silly, and we’d do the dishes. Then she’d take my hand in hers and lead me to her room.

The bed was never made, clothes never put away. Her desk lamp had been broken for the past six months, and her mirror was covered with marks where she’d written random thoughts in dark lipstick. Black-and-white photographs and crumpled pieces of paper littered every available surface. We’d make love in the midst of the clutter, adding our clothes to the ones already on the floor, the chair… and we’d forget it all existed.

My editing job at the newspaper dragged me away from my Donna in the mornings, and my arms ached to hold her even as I pulled away in my battered pick-up. She always looked so innocent, standing there in front of her door, holding up a virgin-white sheet like some Greek goddess. But she’d smile, and she’d wave, and that would be enough to keep me going until noon, when I’d call her, and we’d talk for the hour that I had for lunch. Sometimes she’d sing to me.

***

May 27. One month, one week, six days since I met my Donna.

She kissed my lips ever so softly to wake me up, and I knew blissful contentment.

“C’mere, you,” I growled, and, keeping my eyes closed, pulled her on top of me and kissed her hard. She was so soft, she was so smooth, she was so warm… she was giggling, and pushing herself up and away from me.

“I’ve made breakfast,” she said, motioning for me to follow her into the kitchen.

Chocolate pancakes, her specialty. They were hard as rocks and sat like a concrete bowling ball in my stomach, but I’d eat as many as she wanted me to because they were hers, and she was mine. I’d slip a few to Max under the table, those times when he was with us – he seemed to enjoy my Donna’s cooking well enough. Unfortunately, now was not one of those times, so I would have to suffer through it myself.

Donna hopped up onto the counter and took a rock – sorry, pancake – from the plate of them beside her, and held it in her mouth. She grinned and leaned forward.

“Tease,” I muttered, standing between her open legs and grabbing the pancake from her teeth with my own. As I stood there, gnawing on my Donna’s attempt at breakfast food, she put her hands over her head and started to sway.

“What’re you dancing to?” I asked through a mouthful of gravel.

She laughed, “Oh, please, it’s my inner music, James! C’mon. Feel the beat.”

I thankfully tossed the remains of the pancake onto the counter; she grabbed me by the wrists and pushed and pulled me until I was apparently making some kind of satisfactory movements.

That was my Donna, dancing to her beat, so shocked you couldn’t hear it, too. You just had to tag along, thankful she’d acknowledged you enough to want you there.

***

June 28. Two months, four days since I met my Donna.

The offensive beeping of the alarm pounded my brain like a jackhammer at 6:15. I hadn’t known Donna even owned an alarm clock, let alone occasionally used one, so my immediate reaction was to bolt out of the bed stark naked looking frantically for a fire.

“James, the fuck are you doing?” came my Donna’s sleep-laden voice from beneath the blankets. An elegant, pale hand extended from the depths of the bed and slapped the little black clock on the floor until the noise shut off. The hand then pushed the covers away to reveal a disheveled, impossibly beautiful creature.

My Donna has eyes that steam and foam like an ocean during a hurricane, and they stared at me now from beneath mussed brown hair. I nonchalantly scrambled for some jeans on the floor to hide my arousal.

“So,” I began brusquely, “what’s the alarm for, exactly? It’s fucking Saturday.”

“Don’t say fuck.”

“Fuck you.” I would have been nicer had my head not felt strangely waterlogged.

I kissed the tip of her nose as she passed on her way to the bathroom to show I was sorry.

“I’ve got a job interview, that’s all.” The water turned on and smacked the bottom of the tub. I could have sworn it was buffeting the inside of my skull.

Throwing a flannel button-down on over my bare skin, I followed her. The light seemed oddly off-color and it was too bright – had I drunk last night? I couldn’t remember. I didn’t think so. I caught the edge of the shower curtain just as she tried to draw it across.

“You have a job interview?” My voice cracked.

“It’s not a big deal, James. It’s just a part-time thing at the library.”

Her words distorted themselves in my ears.

“When were you going to tell –” I broke off abruptly and violently vomited into the toilet. After a moment, the water in the shower turned off, and then a cool, moist towel appeared on the back of my neck. She gently ran her fingers through my hair as I knelt shaking over the bowl, and then she patted my shoulder.

“C’mon, brush your teeth, and then we’ll get you to bed.”

My Donna never went to her job interview. She stayed home with me, where she should have been. She told me after I’d slept for a few hours that I was probably sick from the beers and vodka I’d had the night before at the pub. She said it was okay that I didn’t remember.

***

September 14. Exactly four months since I met my Donna.

I woke to the sound of wind blowing the first of the dying leaves off their trees, to the sight of gray storm clouds outside, to the feel of a cold pillow next to mine. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and lifted my head; she wasn’t in the room.

“Donna?” I called, sliding my feet to the cold floor, “Where are ya, honey?” I tugged on a T-shirt and some boxer shorts and broke through a few tangles in my hair as I shuffled over to the bathroom. Her toothbrush was gone.

I said her name again. No response. Well, of course, she must have been brushing her teeth in here and had moved to the kitchen for a glass of clean water, toothbrush still in hand. I made my way there. A note was taped to the refrigerator door.

James –
There’s been a problem. I’m fine,
but I have to deal with something.
Don’t call me, I’ll call you.
XOXO, Donna

Instant panic. I could feel my face twisting into some expression of horror. There was a problem. A problem for my Donna. Something so dire that she had left in the middle of the night with nothing but her toothbrush. No, wait – I looked next to the back door. Her guitar was gone as well. But what was so urgent that she couldn’t have taken the time to wake me and explain what was going on? I was frightened beyond reason.

I was furious.

I wanted my Donna back.

Tossing the note to the floor, I tore back to her room and clambered across the bed for the only phone in the house. My fingers shook so badly that I misdialed her number and had to hang up and try again. With every passing second, my anger rose.

She picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” I demanded.

She sighed, and there was a note of impatience in her voice that grated on my nerves.

“I told you not to call me.”

“But where are you?” The handset was slippery with sweat from my hand.

“I’m in my car.” She was being difficult just to spite me. I knew it.

“Going. Where.” My voice was cold as the rain that was starting to drum against the windows of my Donna’s home.

“My father’s house.”

I hadn’t expected that. My ire abated somewhat. Maybe he’d suffered a heart attack; I knew he’d had heart problems before. I sensed a wave of relief at that thought. This ‘problem’ might not really involve my Donna.

“Is he okay?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

A pause.

“Okay, then…?”

She sighed again, “Look, James, I just needed some space, is all.”

Someone had hit me in the stomach with a crowbar.

“From what?!” I exploded, my breath coming in short spurts, now.

“You,” she stated simply.

“But…” I floundered for words. “But why?”

“James.” I could taste the expiration in her voice. “You’re caging me.”

“I –” I was close to tears. I hoped to God she wouldn’t hear it.

“Please just let me talk? I mean, since I’m on the phone with you now and all. It’s just… I’m a free spirit, James. Always have been, always will be. I need my elbow room so I can write and sing and dance naked around the house, you know?”

Tears choked me, so I nodded instead.

“…You there, James?”

Of course she couldn’t see me.

“Yeah, here,” I whispered.

“Okay, good. I’m not going to be gone for long, honey. I’m just gonna be with my dad for a few days – it’s been a while since I’ve seen him, anyway.”

Don’t let her go!, I screamed at myself. Tell her to come home now or you’ll drive way the hell out there on your own and bring her back. You can’t let our Donna get away. Don’t let her go.

“Okay, that’s okay,” I managed feebly.

“Yeah. Hey, I’m glad you’re taking this well, James.”

Fuck you.

“I love you, Donna.”

“You too, darling. I’ll call you tonight.”

There came the click of her end of the line cutting off, and I sat on the edge of the bed with the phone pressed to my ear for the next few minutes.

To be continued...