The Joy of a Daily Partnership
I write about love, not really knowing what it is, and hardly an expert in giving. If certain experiences I write about seem born of pain, they surely were, but the reward — not always apparent at the time, disregards the sorrow and self-pity. The truth is I have never loved and not learned something valuable. It seems, looking back, I always came away with more than I gave. Even when I was sure I’d given everything.
I’ll call up one day and she may wonder who I am. If my mind serves me well, she is the one who smelled like violets. Or the one who left me at the café, turning back long enough to say, don’t call me until after ten o’clock, my mother goes to bed quite early.
When I decided to write a journal that covered fifty years of loving, I had a thousand scraps of paper, names scribbled on business cards, letters stuffed in shoeboxes, dresser drawers, matchboxes, beer mats. I never had the courage to throw them away, hoping there was a chance they’d remember me.
No one’s hurt is the same as someone else. Still, it’s not nice to tell lies but sometimes it’s difficult straddling the fence between love and loving. For instance, an old acquaintance, twenty-three years since, sent me word that she would appear in a new play in Covent Garden, sending tickets for the opening. That evening, when the curtain fell, I headed backstage to see her. While waiting outside her dressing room door with other well-wishers, I managed not to look at any of them in the eye. It’s not that her performance was bad or that middle age is perhaps a tad old for an actress to be playing a teenager, it was more what I might say while still saying nothing, when suddenly she was holding her arms out toward me.
Amazing, absolutely amazing, I said, I cried during that last scene.
You. You. You, my dear Harry, are incredible. I couldn’t wait to know if you came, she said, how long is it, you rogue.
I can’t say enough. Wonderful, I said. A sentiment which was particularly good since I’d managed to say nothing whatsoever, allowing me time to recall when it was we last met. It was 1989, the Grammy Awards, Bette had the record of the year, Wind Beneath My Wings, I think.
You think? You’re such a prick, Harry. Are you not sure?
I remember the party around town when The Grammy’s were finally over. Instead of going back to the hotel and getting indigestion over the whole thing, it kind of made more sense to make the party round, gulp down a few drinks, eat ridiculous food, and hope to keep out of trouble.
My lips have always been sealed, Harry. I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings — not to their face anyway, I knew you were loving me, I was glad for that. I wasn’t in love with you. I remember you wore dark glasses. I asked why. You said you were dead and didn’t want anyone to notice. I understood, even though I’d never loved someone that hard. The following morning, your bite mark was still on my shoulder blade. That was the last time I saw you, Harry.
I didn’t want to recall what she had recalled. Shame, maybe. I said, simply, I remember when music was really music.
Don’t kid me; you’re not that old, she said. Then, after a pause, seeing regret on my face, she went on, of all the women who ever loved you during those years, my name would surely be down the list. I wouldn’t be surprised. But I’ve never held anything in my heart for you but love, Harry.
What does a lover give to a lover that has not already been offered or been given back?
I gave her a list of my troubles. She listened and gave me comfort. I always imagined I could run ahead of myself and smooth out the rough spots before I got there.
When love had pinned me to the wall and left me dying, trampled with heartache, she was one who revived me. I didn’t make love to her, but I loved her. My gift to her was to make sure she didn’t love me a day more.
Some find at midnight the hope of every dawn. Love, or what it stands in for, is spit out in the time between. Head to head, heart to heart and otherwise, I have not found the perfect fifty years of loving, instead building up something to live for that might end beautifully, because that, in the end, is found in the joy of a daily partnership.
