After Twenty Years
The writer moved along the street, looking tired and
bemused. This was the way he always looked. He was not thinking of how he
looked. There were few people on the street to see him. It was only about ten
at night, but it was cold. There was no wind and the stars were out.
He stopped at doors as he walked along, wondering what lay
behind them. He dared not rattle a knob because people were touchy if you
meddled with their doors at this time of night. He was a suspicious-looking
writer, as most writers are.
People in this part of the city went home early, mostly to
avoid the stink in the air. Someone in the neighborhood was a neat freak,
burning springtime weeds. The smoke hung in the air, drifting like an invisible
fog. Now and then you might see the light behind drawn curtains or lowered
shades, but most of the windows were dark, with people abed or cozy at their
computer screens.
Then the writer suddenly slowed his walk. Near the door of a
squat, square house with a dusty white porch railing, a woman stood. As the
writer walked toward her, she spoke quickly.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m waiting for a friend.
Twenty years ago we agreed to meet here tonight – though how we knew it would
be here I don’t remember. It sounds strange to you, doesn’t it?”
“I’m a writer,” he said. “Sounds pretty normal to me.”
“I’ll explain if you want to be sure that everything’s all
right,” she said. “About twenty years ago, there was a wedding. The people who
lived here weren’t involved. I’m sure that sound strange, too.”
“Again, I’m a writer,” he said. “Last night I dreamed I was
in a sitcom with Bea Arthur. We were newspaper journalists covering a nerd
convention. Nothing sounds strange to me.”
The woman near the door had an oval face with bright eyes.
She had a large smoothie in her hand.
“Twenty years ago tonight,” said the woman, “we were
married. Do you know we went out only a few times before he asked me to marry
him? I told him he was crazy. I told him
no. But my mother –“ she rolled her eyes at this “—my mother said, ‘Oh, he
knows what he’s doing.’ ‘No, he’s an impetuous young man,’ I said to her. She
wouldn’t budge. Then we were married. The pants for his tuxedo were too big.
They almost fell down during the ceremony.”
“We agreed that night we would meet here again in twenty
years. We thought that in twenty years we would know what kind of marriage we
had, and what future waited for us.”
“It sounds interesting,” said the writer. “A long time
between meetings, it seems. Have you heard from your friend since then?”
“All too much it feels, some days,” she said. “Lately, it’s
been Dad Jokes. They get worse every day. Today’s joke? ‘You’ve heard of
Murphy’s Law,’ he said, with that stupid grin on his face. ‘Yes,’ we said.
‘Have you heard of Cole’s law?’ And the stupid grin gets wider. ‘Oh, that took me
a second,’ our oldest said. Isn’t that terrible?”
The woman sipped at her smoothie.
“Three minutes before ten,” she said. “It was ten that night
when we said we’d meet here at the door to this house.”
“You’ve been successful?” the writer asked.
“I believe we have,” she said. “I hope he says the same. He
was a slow mover. Homebody. I’ve had to fight for my success. He said he was
the kind of man who didn’t change much. But he changed. In life, you learn how to fight for what you
get.”
The writer took a step or two.
“I’ll go on my way,” he said. “I hope your friend comes all
right. If he isn’t here at ten, are you going to leave?”
“I am not!” said the other. “I’ll wait half an hour, at
least. If he is alive on Earth, he’ll be here by that time. Good night.”
“Good night,” said the writer, and walked away, wondering at
the doors as he went.
The smoke now hung more thickly in the air and a scud of
clouds obscured some stars. Mr. Goof, the neighborhood cat, sauntered past.
Down the street, a porch light went out. And at the door of the house stood the
woman who had come a thousand miles to meet a friend. Such a meeting could not
be certain. But she waited.
About twenty minutes she waited, and then a tall man in a
long coat came hurrying across the street. He went directly to the waiting
woman.
“Is that you, Michelle?” he asked.
“Is that you, Brian?” cried the woman at the door.
The man took the woman’s hands in his. “It’s Michele! It
surely is! I was certain I would find you here if you were still alive. Twenty
years is a long time. And it’s funny we agreed to meet at this house, where we
live now. Who knew back then we’d own this place? But up the street, there’s a
restaurant,” he said. “We could go there. A twentieth wedding anniversary calls
for china – I can at least buy you Chinese food.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Michelle said. “I’m hungry.”
“Oh really?” Brian asked with that dumb grin on his face.
“Hi, Hungry. I’m Brian.”
She hit him with her empty smoothie cup.
Happy 20th Anniversary, dear. I promise to cool
it with the Dad jokes.
