Brief Encounters

BRIEF ENCOUNTERS

Jack Mallory had just gotten in the door when the phone rang.  As he picked up the phone, he noticed the note on the refrigerator from Becky that warned him not to bother her until she came down.  “Oh, hi Jack.  I was hoping to catch my sister.”

“Well, she’s here, Liz” said Jack, “but she is so up to her eyeballs that I’m afraid she would shoot the messenger if I tried to interrupt her.  You know how she can get when the quarterlies are due.  ”

“Yeah, and that’s why I was calling.  Your kids are here—“

“Oh, I just got home and—“

“--and they wanted to rent a movie and sleep over.  Sarah and Jeff have been pestering me all day to have their cousins sleep over, so finally I said I would call and make sure it was okay.  Is it okay?  Besides, it’ll be one less thing for Becky to worry about.”

“Let me look on the calendar.  What’s tomorrow?  Saturday, the 8th?  Well, sure.  I don’t see anything tomorrow morning, so they can even sleep in.  How about that!  Thanks Liz.”

“No problem.  Listen, tell my sister that this corporate gig isn’t worth getting an ulcer over.”

“The ulcer, unfortunately I’m sure, is in full bloom as we speak.  But I’ll remind her.  Why don’t we talk tomorrow morning about pick-up.”

“Great,” said Liz.  “I’ll have them up and fed by 10.  I’ve got a hair appointment at 10:30.  But don’t worry, no rush.  Jerry will be here.”

  “Actually, I was thinking of taking Jenna and Ben to that new Disney flick that opened at the Strand.  Maybe I can take all four.  What do you think?”

“Go ahead, twist my arm.  Yeah, that sounds great.  We’ll talk.”

With that, Jack hung up.  He was more than pleased to have some alone time.  It had been a grueling week of grading and reports, but the term was over and he could relax. 

He went up to the bedroom, pealed off his work “uniform” and slipped into his lounging pants and Patriots sweat shirt.

He looked at the journal that he kept next to the bed, picked it up, flipped through some pages.  He took it over to the love seat in the “reading corner” in front of the bay window, flicked on the reading lamp, and pulled an afghan over his legs.

He regularly kept a journal.  He felt that it centered him, gave him a place to reflect on the events of his life, a place to bitch that was a whole lot cheaper than therapy, and a chronological account of where he had come from and how he had changed.

Every so often he leafed through previous entries.  Life somehow seemed more of a continuum to him when he did this, with some remote yet obvious point of departure and a suggestion of a destination.  He wondered what he had been up to last year at this time, March vacation.  As he re-read some of the entries—about hockey games, the departmental party (ugh!), and some desperate talk about finding either another job or a new career (midlife crisis? he wondered)—he noted that certain phrases kept shouting out at him; “she’s a workaholic”, “when will she remember she has a husband,” “the neglect is getting to be too much,” “I can’t take any more of this”, “maybe an affair?” or “I miss her”.  He stopped for a minute, and suddenly the old feelings came back over him, primed by those declarations.

Twenty-two years of marriage had brought their ups and downs.  Maybe they had Nicky too soon after they got married.  Jack had often heard himself say that to friends at parties.  He loved Nick, and their mutual passion for the Red Sox and the Bruins was a tie that bound them together.  However, their son’s arrival eleven months after their wedding day didn’t give them much of a chance to settle into each other.  They both realized that.  At 38, the twins were a mistake.  Well, actually, more like a miscalculation. The flextime she requested and was granted to take care of them retarded Becky’s rise through the ranks at Marston International.  The company was actually great about accommodating her needs, letting her telecommute daily, which she learned to do very effectively, and only requiring an occasional appearance in the office in Boston.  She should have made VP by now, but her attention to family had retarded her progress.

         Jack came across the following line he had written in red:  “Serendipity takes us down uncharted roads that are good for the soul!!!”  He liked that line.  He remembers writing it, remembers that the three exclamation marks were written with flourish, finality and intentionality. He loosened his grip on the journal and let it flop on his lap.  He stared off into the distance, the hint of a smile sliding across his lips and eyes.  He closed his eyes, and let memory wash over him, let the images of that afternoon about a year ago remind him.  He could still see her, (I never did learn her name, he thought), still smell
the coffee house where they sat and talked seemingly forever.  He could still hear her voice, and still remember with a slight twinge his own pain reflected through her.



Jack always wondered what kind of people went to movie matinees on a Wednesday afternoon.  Of course, he was one of them, but then that was understandable since he was a teacher and had chunks of time off during the course of a year that afforded him that luxury. But those tied to the office or the factory from nine to five, day in and day out, weren’t so lucky.  That’s probably why the movie theater was filled with solitary women and old couples, some of whom may have been teachers like himself, or maybe soccer moms whose kids were off at camp, or retirees who had nothing more pressing to do.

         Jack was a sucker for a good romance, and The Bridges of Madison County, which he had missed the first time around, certainly qualified as one.  The local art house in Cambridge was doing a Clint Eastwood retrospective, so he decided to avail himself of the opportunity
.
         “Come on, honey, it’ll be great!” he said to his wife, Becky, as she sat hunched over her computer, multiple screens of data staring back at her.  “And you know how much you like Meryl Streep!  Come on, before your eyes fall out of your head.”

         “God damn it, Jack, you know I have work to do,” said Becky.

         Jack stood there listening to the all-too-familiar line.

         “These reports have to get done by Friday.”  Becky couldn’t have been more adamant.

         “Christ. It's just kind of fun—,” said Jack.

         “I have a ton of data that I haven't even entered yet,” said Becky.

         “—you know, right in the middle of the day,” Jack continued, not wanting to hear his wife’s excuses.

         “Christ, you always do this.”

         “Do what?” said Jack.

         “Just because you don't have anything to do—”

         John Maier


         “Here we go again.”  Jack rolled his eyes and sighed.

         “—that everyone else should just drop what they're doing—”

         “Same old, same old,” he thought.

“Well it doesn't work like that,” said Becky who turned back to the mountain of reports and multiple screens of data that she was sifting through.

“Why do we have to have this  . . . this “moment” over and over again?” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Becky shot back.

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.  How many times does the same situation have to keep coming up in our lives.”

Becky’s eyes narrowed.  The vein on her temple began to throb, and the veins on her forehead started to bulge.

“I . . .. have . . . .a . . ..  responsibility,” she said in slow, measured terms, her steely eyes boring through him.

“I know you do,” said Jack, not sure whether to play his trump card or not.  “But . . .” He paused to gather himself.  “But you also have a husband who spends too many nights and weekends by himself because you have worked yourself into exhaustion.  When is it my turn?  When do I get on the to-do list?”  The emotion was getting too strong, and he turned away and bit his lip.

Becky’s silence screamed across the room at him.

“Fine, fine.  Stay here!” he finally said.  “But I’m going.  See you later.”

         “When later?”

“When I get home,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the stairs from her office over the garage.

Jack hopped into the jeep and slammed the door shut.  He jammed the key into the ignition and raced the engine up to the red zone.  “Son of a bitch.  Every goddamn time!”  He sat for a moment, his head buried in his arms as they wrapped themselves around the steering wheel.  Slowly, he took a couple of deep breaths and sat up, just staring out through the windshield.  His shoulders slumped and his head hung, his eyes fixed on the floor.  Jack sighed deeply a couple of times, and then sat up straight, fastened his seat belt, and popped the gear into reverse.  He backed out of the driveway, and headed off down the street towards I-93 and the highway into Cambridge

Jack looked at the radio for a moment, but then retracted his finger from the button.  He took out his cell phone, clicked the END button, and watched the screen go
black.  The only sound that invaded his world was the humming of the tires on the road. He had carved out a little slice of heaven inside the Jeep.  As the rest of the commuter world rushed by at speeds that spoke volumes of hasty lives and commitments that needed to be fulfilled yesterday, Jack maintained a speed below that of every other car so that his mind was liberated from the race and could wander where it would.  He replayed the scene with Becky, hoping to find some unremembered nuance that would salvage the moment.  Was he just not enough of an adult to realize that the real adult world didn’t have time for these kinds of “afternoon delights”?  ‘You’re such a dreamer!’ he thought.  The put-down darkened his already somber mood.  ‘No, you’re not . . . Why does everybody have to work, and then work some more?  . . .  Christ, half the world works a ten-hour day, and then brings three hours of work home.  No wonder everyone is in a constantly pissy mood . . . I refuse to live like that . . . You have to get out and smell the roses.’  Jack’s insistence met with the soundtrack of constant rebuttal from Becky’s words and attitude.  “The hell with her!” he said aloud to no one and to everyone.

By the time he got to the Brattle Cinema in Harvard Square, he had regained control of himself.  He paid the $5 admission (matinees have their advantages), scored a bag of popcorn, and settled into a seat toward the back of the theater on the right side just as the coming attractions were beginning.  A brief survey of the theater reminded him of the typical audience for these shows: five or six pairs of aged women, three senior couples, and a handful of single fortyish women.

         The movie didn’t disappoint.  It was romantic, sensual, and idyllic just as Jack had hoped it would be.  The sexual tension between Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep was intense from the moment he got out of his truck at the beginning of the movie and asked her for directions to a covered bridge that was supposed to be nearby.  Jack could play out the rest of the story in his head from that point on since it was so obvious, but that didn’t in the least mute the romantic and sensual pas de deux that he saw unfolding on the screen in front of him.  As the two danced toward the inevitable sexual encounter, Jack was struck by how natural it all seemed.  It begged the question of just what was infidelity since this encounter and interaction seemed so beautiful and so necessary.

         He walked out of the theater transfixed by the moving story he had just had the pleasure to witness.  Lost in his thoughts, he barely saw the woman who was cutting in front of him to throw away her coffee cup.  The cup just missed his nose.

“Oh, sorry,” she said with a slightly nervous giggle.  “I didn’t see you.”  She had just come out of the same movie and was probably, Jack thought, in her own little world too. 

“Hey, no problem,” he said with a smile.  “You just missed.  We’re still all together here,” he said, touching his nose to make the point.
 
She laughed and slid into the women’s room, but slipped him a quick glance before she did.  He too made a pit stop.  As he came out, he noticed her just a little in front of him going out the door.  She glanced up and down the street as if looking for something or someone but to no avail.
 
As he came out of the theater, she caught sight of him and commented, “The nose is still in tact I see.”
 
Jack laughed.  “Your aim is pretty bad, actually, since the target is so obvious,” he replied.  They both chuckled.

         “How did you like the movie?” she said.

         “I was surprised,” said Jack.  “I guess I’ve seen too many Dirty Harry movies . . .”

“Meaning?”

“Well, frankly I didn’t really expect Clint Eastwood to be . . .you know . . .as sensitive a guy as he was.  And Meryl Streep . . . well, she’s always great.  How about you?’

         “I was expecting it to be somewhat saccharine, frankly.”

“Why saccharine?”

“It just sounded too sweet--”

“Well, yeah, I guess—“

“ . . . But the characters and the situation were more than believable, I thought.  Meryl Streep was phenomenal.”

         She went on to talk a little more about the cinematography and the romantic setting, and finally said to Jack, “Listen, I’m going for a coffee.  Want to join me?”

         “Uh, yeah, sure,” said Jack somewhat taken aback.  “There’s a Starbucks down the street I think.”

         “Great,” she said, and off they went. 

         The Starbucks was just off Harvard Square.  They paid for their lattes and settled into a couple of easy chairs that framed a table in front of the window.
 
“What a great spot!” she said.

         “There’s something about Harvard Square, isn’t there?  The energy is just so amazing!” said Jack.

Outside the window, all manner of society in a rainbow of colors and hues, backpacks and brief cases brimming, scurried along, off to find the next cancer breakthrough, or heading to the Kennedy Center for a briefing about foreign policy.  Society at its most energized and most engaged was there for the observing as the two of them settled into the intimate eye at the heart of the storm around them.

She took a sip of her coffee and settled in to the brown leather chair.  “Ah, that’s good!  Starbucks wins the prize every time!  . . .  So tell me, what made you come to the movie this afternoon.  Did you skip out of work or something?”

Jack chuckled.  “No.  I have the week off and . . . “

“Oh wow!  Good for you!” she said with a smile.  “How did you get so lucky?” she asked.

“Well, I teach at Pingree and . . .”

“Oh, I know Pingree.  Good school!” she said.

“Yeah, yeah it is.  Well we have vacation this week and next, so when I saw this being advertised, I said what the heck, chance to get out and see the movie version.  I read the book a number of years back.  You ever read it?”

“No, no I never did.”

“Well, the book is just as good.  The movie actually does a good job with the book, makes it a little dreamier actually.”

She told him that she was in Boston for the day for a board meeting of the Pine Street Manor, and that the working session and lunch had ended by two and this seemed an opportunity to just have some fun before she went back home to Hingham.  She was in no hurry to return since her husband was away on a business trip, and wouldn’t be home for another week.  “Import/export.  He’s gone for a couple of weeks at a time,” she said, with a tilt of the head, her brow furrowing and her eyes rolling ever so slightly to the heavens as she exhaled with a certain obvious vigor.  Jack noticed the gesture, but let it go.

“You said before that the movie spoke to you.  What did you mean?” asked Jack.

“What I meant was that I think the movie reflects real life,” she said.

“How so?” asked Jack.

  “Well, Francesca to me is most women.  Do you know what I mean?”

“No, not really,” said Jack.

“Life becomes a routine and you get taken for granted.  Everyone just expects mom and wife to be there.”

“Or husband and father.  Boy, isn’t that the truth!” said Jack. 

“But what if you’re not there?  What if you think of you for once?”  She stopped at that and smiled, taking a sip of her latte and looking at Jack for a response.

“What if you just go ahead and fulfill your needs for once and leave responsibility aside,” she continued.

“I don’t think the world would fall apart,” said Jack. 

“Of course it wouldn’t,” she said.  “And I just loved her reflecting on her affair in her diary when she said, ‘and in that moment, everything I knew to be true about myself up until then was gone. I was acting like another woman, yet I was more myself than ever before.’”

“Okay, I’m totally impressed!” said Jack.  “How can you remember entire lines like that?”

         “Oh, I don’t know,” she said.  “Let’s just call it a gift,” at which she smiled, winked at him, and took a sip of her latte.  Jack was intrigued, wondering where all of this was going.

         “But think of that line for a minute,” she said.  “That’s a pretty incredible statement, and at the same time a powerful indictment.”  She took another sip of her latte, and looked outside at the dusk that was slowly engulfing the street.  A darkness had settled over her face that obliterated the smile.

         Jack sipped at his coffee, rolling the cup around in his hands.  There was a bite to her statement.  Was it the sting of some personal bitterness that she was alluding to?  Was it bait that she threw out hoping Jack would take?  Was there a generalized bitterness toward men that was seeping out from around the edges?  Jack couldn’t quite tell.  If he followed with a question that was too personal, did he risk having this delicious moment dissipate?  He pondered the intangibles, finally realizing that whatever direction he took was risky, so he decided that any direction was okay.

         “Your tone makes me think this is personal,” said Jack finally, not knowing what reception his remark would receive.

         She looked at him, sat back with her coffee, and glanced out the window.  The darkness now had engulfed the square, and their reflections played off of the glass.  She was pensive.  After what felt like more than the minute that had actually elapsed, she uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, put her coffee on the table, and responded. 

“Too many of my friends live like Francesca,” she said, still looking out the window.  “It’s the suburban soccer mom syndrome.”  She heaved a sigh and took another sip of her coffee and placed it back down on the table. 

“What do you mean?” asked Jack. 

“Well, I see it like this.  A life that feels right at first becomes an endless list of tasks to perform and responsibilities to someone else.  And then their husbands become more married to their work than to them, and somehow their own needs get lost in the shuffle.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that.”  Jack kept the irony he saw in that statement to himself.

“They become someone else without wanting to be, and not totally aware anymore of how they got where they are,” she said.  “That’s usually when the crisis hits.”

Jack was taken slightly aback at her directness.  At the same time, he could see too much of his own marriage in that statement.  When did Becky become less his wife, and more the corporate honcho that she was?  Was it that promotion six years ago to regional sales head that did it?  Or was that just one more step in a progression that he never really noticed until one morning he woke up and it just bit him on the butt?  He didn’t know.

         “You know, I think this cuts both ways.  When married women get into positions of responsibility in business, there doesn’t seem to be room for the frivolous or the serendipitous in their lives either.”

She looked at him, just stared, letting the remark hang in the air.  Jack wasn’t sure whether he had deflated her or offended her.

“I don’t know whether it’s the need to respond to the responsibilities of work, or that they just lose interest or what,” said Jack, shrugging his shoulders and giving a slight tip of his head.

“You sound like you’re talking from personal experience,” she responded.

“Well, yeah, I am.  I wanted my wife to come to the movies today, for example, but she had too much work . . . again.”  Jack rolled his cup in his hands, and then took a sip.

“She works at home, and could rearrange her time.  But she has a report due by Monday, and she’s home number crunching.”

She looked at Jack, and then looked out the window for a minute.  “She has a responsibility!  What else can she do?” she said.

“Yeah, but that seems to be all she does.”  Jack paused with that statement, took a deep sigh, and stared out the window.

“And then she lays a little guilt trip on me about not understanding.  There just seems to be this never-ending tension between work and leisure in our lives.  I don’t know anymore, you know?”

         “So do you think that Francesca was a fool for doing what she did with Kincaid?” she asked.

Jack thought about that for a minute.  His colleague Jessica Reardon flashed through his mind.  She and her husband started going in different directions when they hit 40.  Jessica’s mood grew darker and darker over the period of a couple of years, and everyone around her noted and commented on the change.  They later discovered that Jessica had become so dissatisfied in her marriage that she got involved in one of those cyber friends sites that led to an affair.  Ultimately, Jessica and her husband divorced and a bitter custody battle ensued that left their twelve year old daughter Kelly depressed and in therapy.  Jack responded to the question with vigor.

“I thought that Francesca had a very sad life, actually” said Jack.

“Oh really?  Why?’

“Well, sure, she found understanding and tenderness with Kincaid.  But when she showed up too late and he left, she seemed to live with the shadow of that lost love for the rest of her life.  How was her life really any better?”

“Well, a lot of it is perspective, it seems to me.  I mean, if you put out of your mind the fact that this person, this lover, is not the love of your life, but just someplace to feel good for a little while, then you’re not committing huge amounts of emotional collateral to the affair.”

She sat with that for a moment.  She stared off into the dark of Harvard Square.  There was a spectral, almost otherworldly hue to her face reflected in the picture window.  “You know, a place to escape to after the affair is over when things in your actual life aren’t going well.  And if it’s anonymous, so much the better.”  The smile, Jack thought, seemed forced, a happy veneer covering a painful wound.

         “But you risk the possibility of putting many lives at emotional risk,” he responded.  “How selfish is that?  And how unfair is it to your spouse who keeps getting compared to some unknown lover,” said Jack, somewhat surprised by his own defense of even rocky relationships.  He felt somewhat the hypocrite as the words tumbled out of his mouth.

         She leaned forward in her chair.  “How selfish is it to live in a private little emotional hell of dissatisfaction and recrimination that turns you into someone you aren’t?  What good are you then to your spouse, or, more importantly, to yourself?”  Her eyes had narrowed.  Jack wasn’t sure whether he was being chastised in that remark, or whether she was more than keenly aware that she had fallen victim to Francesca’s trap but couldn’t find herself again.  Was she jealous of Francesca?  Jack had the odd sensation that he was looking at himself, that this seemingly disaffected woman was, if what he was assuming about her were true, somehow a shadow of himself.  He didn’t like what he was seeing.

         “So, let me get this straight,” said Jack.  “You think that Francesca was right to involve herself with Kincaid.  Is that it?”

         “I think that serendipity takes us down uncharted roads that are good for the soul,” she responded.  “When in the rest of her life,” she said, pausing for a minute for emphasis, “the . . . rest . . . of . . . her . . . life,” she said, her lips tense, her eyes narrowing, “was she ever going to be able to grab life like this again?  Her life was as regular as the planting cycles.  She was trapped and she knew it.”

         Jack was flustered by now.  “I can’t imagine that there was no recourse for her.  You make it seem like she and her husband could never work this out by some heart to heart conversation.”

         She smiled at the thought.  “I think that we become who we allow ourselves to become.”  She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair.  “The process is so gradual that we don’t even notice it, but the realization, when it comes, hits us full blast, square between the eyes.”  She motioned with her right index finger to the middle of her forehead.  “By the time we realize that change is needed, it is almost too late.”

“I can’t . . .” Jack started to respond, but couldn’t quite see where he was going with it. 

“The heart to hearts will be more like two ships passing in the night.  Why do you think so many people our age get divorced?”  There was an undeniable sadness to her voice as it trailed off.

         Jack wasn’t quite sure where to take that statement.  He sat back, staring at her, his lips pressing together, and he took a quick intake of air and let it out with a slight force.  He drained what remained of his coffee, looked at his watch, and said: 

“I think I need to be going.  My wife will probably send out the posse if I don’t show up sometime soon.  Can I walk you to your car?”

         “Sure, that would be great.  Thanks,” she said.

         They covered the three blocks making small talk about how spring seemed so far away yet, how it was colder than usual for the beginning of March:  anything to lighten the atmosphere.  They reached her car, a shiny blue Z3, and she fumbled for her keys in her bag.  “Well, here we are, then.”  She unlocked the car, got in, and lowered the window.  “I think we put that movie to bed, don’t you?  Thank you so much for a stimulating afternoon.”

         “Hey, it was my pleasure.  Thanks for the invite.”

         “Do you come here often?” she asked.

         “Yeah, maybe once a month.”

         “Me too.  Maybe we’ll see you around here again?”  Her voice rose with that hint of anticipation.

         “That would be lovely.  See you,” said Jack.

         “Bye,” she said, throwing him a kiss in the air, and then speeding off.

         Jack continued on down the same street and around the corner to his own car.  He settled in, fastened his seatbelt, and turned out onto the street, heading for home.  He reached over and turned on the radio.  “Eric in the Evening”, his favorite jazz show, had just started, and the soothing tones of its opening piano piece brought focus and          
familiarity.  At its end, the velvety “Well, good evening to you,” of Eric Jackson welcomed and soothed him.  ‘The heart to hearts will be more like two ships passing in the night.’  Jack tossed that thought around in his mind as he headed down Storrow Drive toward the Fleet Center, unwilling to give in to the cynicism that it implied.  John Coltraine, Herby Hancock, and Count Basie were his ride companions that evening, ‘We become who we allow ourselves to become’.
 
         “You can take it back if you want it,” he said to himself.  “You have to want it,” he said with force.  “You have to want it.  We will not pass each other in the night.”

         As Jack pulled into the driveway, he noticed that Becky’s office lights were out.  She had obviously finished the report.  “Good,” he thought.  He entered into the kitchen, put his keys in the basket that hung on the wall inside the door, threw his coat over the hook on the wall next to it, and followed the noise of the television into the living room where he found Becky in the recliner, her feet propped up on an ottoman, and looking all the world like she had been dragged through world war three.

         “So, you finished!” said Jack with a triumphant glee.

         “What a headache!” said Becky.  “I haven’t decided whether I should quit first, or fire them all and then quit.  Jack, I can’t keep on . . .”

         Jack put a finger to her lips.  “Shh,” he said, “shh.  We’ll have no business talk around here right now.”

         “But . . . “ said Becky.

         “No buts,” replied Jack.  “Becky,” he said, sitting on the ottoman next to her feet, and taking her hand, “Becky, we need to talk.”

         “Jack, I have a head the size of the Grand Canyon and . . . “ Jack got up and went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water and some aspirin.
 
         “Here, take these,” he said, and she downed the pills without further discussion.  “But we have to talk and talk . . . NOW.”  He knelt down beside her and took her hand.  “I just spent the afternoon talking with this  . . . “


         Jack was rudely returned to reality by the bedroom doorknob turning and the squeaky hinge.  The door flung open and Becky stood in the doorframe, hands upraised in triumph.  “Oh yeah, oh yeah,” she screamed.  “Who’s the best, Jackie boy, who’s the best?  You’re looking at the queen of the accounts!  And on top of it all, I found a way to
save us about a million bucks next year.  Do you think old man Marston might like that a little bit?”

         Jack sat up in his chair.  He was thrilled with the news.  “Great!  Good for you.  That’s wonderful news, honey.  Oh, by the way, Ben and Jenna are staying over at Liz’s tonight.”

         “Awesome!” she said.  Jack could see a little naughty twinkle come up in her eyes, and a little pouty twist in her lips.  “Does this mean we can leave the door open and make a lot of noise?”  She undid the top buttons of her shirt as she slid onto the arm of the love seat next to him.