Love Unspoken, Love Unbroken

Dedicated to everyone I've loved, past...and present

No Absolution: February 1998

It’s quiet here. But then again, it’s supposed to be quiet. Cemeteries, even those in the heart of a city, tend to be full of silence. The sounds of the neighborhood – barking dogs, laughing children, even the traffic on the adjacent streets – are swallowed up by the silence of the graveyard. The walls around the perimeter of the cemetery – imposing redbrick walls six feet high and adorned with a black iron fence – have something to do with it, I suppose. I’m a historian, not an acoustical engineer.

I’ve been here some fifteen minutes, but it seems as if I have been here for hours. It has been twenty minutes since I drove into the parking lot, walked into the main office, and asked one of the dark-suited employees where Marty’s grave is. The employee – or Service Representative, as her desktop nameplate so eloquently states her job title – quietly tapped a few keys on her computer’s keyboard, squinted at her glowing monitor, then gave me a lot number and directions. “I could show you myself,” she suggested, “if you’d like.”

“No, thank you,” I said. I have a pretty good sense of direction. Besides, the Service Representative looks too much like my wife – correction, ex-wife. Red hair, green eyes. Carrie is a bit taller, of course, and she doesn’t work in a funeral home. Still, in just the right light, the Service Representative – Jennifer Something-or-Other – is a dead ringer for the woman I have just divorced. Oh, swell.

It took me three minutes to find Marty’s grave. It wasn’t hard at all; Jennifer’s directions were explicit enough, and as I said before, I have a good sense of direction.

Besides, for some reason I can’t begin to comprehend, Martina Elizabeth Reynaud, even in death, has been tugging at me like a magnet attracts an iron filing. She has been doing this since I first saw her in the chorus practice room at our high school nearly 20 years ago, and I suppose she always will. Perhaps that explains why I left Miami to study, and, later, teach history at Harvard, Georgetown and even Oxford. Why I chose to live in Washington, DC for five years after becoming a professor of history at the American University. (I now live and work in New York City.) Why I roamed Northwestern Europe and the UK for another year to research my book – still unfinished, I am afraid – on Operation Market-Garden. My friend (and ex-lover) Nicole says I’m just a restless soul. My barhopping friend Mark thinks it’s just a premature middle age crisis; I just celebrated my 33rd birthday last week, after all. I have another theory. It’s not original, so I can’t call it the James Garraty Theory of Life. Want to hear it? Here goes. No matter how old you get, how affluent or successful you become, you’ll never outrun the ghosts of your past. Particularly the ghosts of your adolescence. Put simply, you can graduate from high school, but your soul will never leave that place.

God, it sure is quiet here. Then again, it issupposed to be quiet.

***

I received a phone call a week ago from my friend Mark Prieto. I have known Mark since we were fifth graders. He is a real estate broker who has lived in Miami all his life; except for two trips to New York City (once for my wedding, once for my recent divorce), Mark has never felt compelled to leave South Florida. We talk over the phone at least twice a month, and we exchange e-mails on a weekly basis. Most of the time we talk about trivia– sports, mostly, or Mark’s latest sales exploits. Last year Mark was the first broker in his firm to make over a million in sales, and all ofthose in residential properties. We also talk a great deal about women. Actually, he does most of the talking; since my divorce from Carrie I have spent most of my non-teaching hours onUncertain Trumpets: Operation Market-Garden, a critical study of the ill-fated Allied airborne assault on Holland in September 1944. Mark constantly chastises me for burying my nose in books, maps and archival photos. His advice, simply put, is this: “What you need, Jimmy boy, is to go to a bar, pick up some sweet young thing, and get laid.”

“I’m notyou, Mark,” I say wearily. “Don’t get me wrong, pal; I like the company of women. Ilike sex. But I’m not into one-night stands, cheap, meaningless liaisons – that sort of thing. It’s – empty, somehow.”

“So you say, Jim,” Mark says, and I can almost see him smirk, even though he’s a thousand miles away. “But you’re not doing yourself any favors by sleeping alone every night.”

And so it goes. At least, that is how it usually goes.

But the phone call I received last Tuesday night did not go as usual.

***

Mark always lets me know when he is going to call me by sending an e-mail. Since I spend most of my time at the university – teaching, preparing lectures, grading papers, advising students, attending faculty meetings, or working on my Market-Garden manuscript – it is very likely that my telephone will go unanswered. I don’t give my home number to my students; they can leave any messages on the university’s voice mail system. I haven’t spent too much time at home since the divorce. The apartment is in a nice mid-Manhattan building. It is on the third floor and has a nice view of downtown New York. Right now it is a bit unkempt; my ex-wife, a stockbroker for a large investment firm, has good taste in home decoration, so it’s more stylish than it would be if I’d decorated it. At the moment, however, every available piece of furniture – except a smallish couch in the living room – is cluttered with maps, photos, books and stacks of transcripts from oral histories provided by the staff of the Eisenhower Center in New Orleans. I’ve written two other historical books –Triumph in the Pacific andLost Victory: Desert Storm 1991 – and it’s always been like that. I keep my personal computer in my office – there’s no room at the inn for it at what Mark calls “the command center.”

Every night before I reluctantly leave my office I check my computer for e-mail messages. I get them all the time from all over the world. But on that Tuesday night, there was only one message.

To: Professor James K. Garraty
From: Mark
11 February 1998, 1634 EST
Subject: m.e.r.

Jim,
Be home by 10 PM. Got to tell you something.
Mark

That’s it. There were no details, none of Mark ’s acerbic observations, no jokes. Just a cryptic subject line and that terse message.

Be home by 10 PM. Got to tell you something.

I looked at my watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. A few of my colleagues in the History Department were in their cubicles. The department chairman, Henry Townsend, Ph.D., poked his head into my cubicle just as I was shutting down my computer. “Hey, James,” he said casually, “calling it a night?”

“Yes, Henry,” I replied as I shut off the power to my monitor.

“Hmm,” the department chair said drolly. “How’s your research coming along?”

“Oh, just great,” I said. “I think I’ll hop over to London during the semester break to take a look at some of the dispatches from 21st Army Group, maybe interview some of the old ‘troopers from the First Airborne Division.”

“You’re sure the British will let you into the country? Weren’t you the one who wrote that Montgomery was Eisenhower’s worst impediment to the conduct of the campaign in Northwest Europe? I bet they love you forthat assessment.”

“Well, I’ll just let the record speak for itself, Henry. Besides, Ambrose and Hastings have said the same thing.” I really wasn’t in the mood for a debate. “Look, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” my boss replied. “Hey,” he said as I switched off my desktop lamp, “are you okay?”

“I’m just a little peaked,” I said, settling for a half-truth. Ihad given three lectures in my regular Tuesday-Thursday history classes, spent most of the afternoon grading papers, and part of the evening reading my correspondence. Not exactly backbreaking, and it was still early in the semester. Mark’s cryptic message had, however, left me a bit unsettled. But I’ve never been very good at letting people know what I’m feeling, and I don’t like opening up to just anybody. Henry Townsend is my boss and colleague. We get along nicely within those well-defined boundaries, but I never discuss my personal life with him.

“Go home,” he said quietly, and then he walked away.

***

“Hi, Mark,” I said when I picked up my telephone receiver. I glanced casually at my watch; it was 10:05 PM.

“Jim, Marty died yesterday afternoon.”

No preamble. No jokes. Just this hellish bolt-out-of-the-blue.

“What?” I had been standing next to the couch in the living room. In the blink of an eye I was sitting on the couch. My legs had lost their strength. I felt the blood rush out of my face.

“I know,” Mark said apologetically. “I just heard about it this morning. I had hoped it wasn’ther, y’know, and I didn’t want you to find about it from the papers.”

“I-I understand,” I managed to say bleakly. I took a deep breath. “Mark, how…how did she –?” I couldn’t bring myself to say the worddie. It has such an ugly aura of finality to it.

“Well,” Mark paused, then he continued. “A car accident of some sort. Three other people were killed, Jim, so it must have been pretty bad. The cops haven’t really said anything else.”

“My God,no,” I whispered.

“I’m really sorry, man,” Mark said quietly. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, not really,” I said. “Look, thanks for telling me yourself. You did good, man.”

“You okay?” he asked, and I could almost see him frowning with concern.

“No, not really,” I said again.

“Can you come down for the funeral?”

“When is it?”

“Well, it’s not until Friday, from what I’ve heard,” Mark said.

“I’ve got a bunch of office hours appointments with some of my undergraduate students, and I can’t break away from them.” It was true, but it sounded pretty lame, even to me. “I’ll see if I can get one of my teaching assistants to cover for me next week. Is it okay if I stay at your place?”

“Hey, doesn’t the university pay you history weenies enough so you can pay for a hotel?” Mark mock-wailed in an attempt to cheer me up. “Sure,” he said in a more subdued tone. “When do you think you’re coming down?”

“Sunday, maybe Monday.”

“Okay. Give me a heads-up call as soon as you know, all right?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, then I hung up the phone.

***

I was not able to sleep that night. To be honest, I didn’t even try. I stood in front of my living room window, staring out at the bright lights of New York City. I don’t know how long I stood there; in fact, I didn’t see the millions of multicolored lights or the never-ending streams of headlights and taillights on the busy streets below. Instead I saw, in my mind’s eye, the crowded high school classrooms and halls where my friends and I had shared triumphs and tragedies; where the ghosts of our past still reside. Images flickered in my mind. I saw the faces of teachers and fellow students I hadn’t seen in years. I heard snatches of songs I had rehearsed in third period chorus. I saw the library where I had spent long hours studying after school.

Most of all, I saw Marty.

Marty as a shy sophomore, auditioning for Mrs. Quincy, the school choir director.

Marty at the 1981 Homecoming Dance, looking radiant after being selected as Junior Princess.

Marty singing her first solo at the 1981 Christmas concert.

Marty sitting alone in the chorus practice room on the last day of our senior year.

I stared long and hard at those sepia-colored memories. And as my mind carried me back to the place I’d sworn I’d never return to, I remembered.

Journey’s End: 14th of June, 1983

6:00 a.m. Home:

I woke up on the morning of my last day of high school with a blinding headache. I had not slept well. I’d stayed up too late, spent far too many hours leafing through my still new yearbook. (In one of those strange moments of reflection, I wondered if 20 years later I would recognize myself in those black and white photos after drinking one scotch and soda too many.) At three in the morning I finally turned off my reading lamp and plopped my head on my pillow. Even so, I’d only managed to doze off when it was suddenly time to get up again; the Sony radio/alarm clock was blasting out Sousa’s“Semper Fidelis March” at what seemed to sound like 180 decibels. I switched it off quickly before my head exploded.

I reluctantly took one of my hands out from under the bed sheets, and keeping my eyes closed, turned on the lamp on the night table next to my bed. I opened my eyes slowly, letting them grow accustomed to the light little by little.

“Gotta get up, buddy-boy,” I muttered under my breath, “so get movin’."

I got out of bed slowly, but my body was not yet in synch with my brain. I stood up tentatively, looking for all the world like a newborn fawn trying to get up on its feet. My legs were not sure if they could support my body weight, and for a few seconds I felt sure that I was going to fall flat on my face. I was surprised when I didn’t fall. Not only were my legs capable of supporting my 160-pound body weight, they could propel me across my room. I tried crossing the space between my bed and my battered student’s desk (still cluttered with half a year’s worth of English assignments, a Smith-Corona typewriter, a rough draft of my last research paper, and several issues ofTime magazine), and, although my knees wobbled ever so slightly, I made the short round trip twice before I was certain I’d make it to the bathroom. Taking one last look around, I turned off the light from the wall switch, then shuffled blearily across the hallway to the bathroom.

***

10:55 a.m.: South Miami Senior High School: A Classroom:

On the last day of school, things always seem to take place at a slower pace than usual, especially after the last final exams have been completed. Since Finals Week is so markedly different from the norm, with schedules switched to accommodate final exams, there is a battle between the faculty and the restive students for the maintenance of order and discipline. The administration insists on enforcing strict attendance even on this last day, and the students demand to be released after 180 days of boredom and drudgery. For the first two days of Finals Week the administration blusters, bullies, and cajoles, and a majority of the student body remains on campus to review for the remaining exams.

On the last day, however, as soon as the third period (actually, it’s second period, but old habits die hard) bell rings there is a mass exodus from the school, even though there are a few faculty and staff members stationed like guards in the hallways as a deterrent. They are either bypassed or ignored altogether, and in some cases the teachers simply turn their backs on the whole thing. There are more important details to attend to – grading exams, recording grades, and putting away materials until another school year begins in the fall semester – and standing guard duty seems to be a waste of time. What few students remain do so out of habit or loyalty to friends, favorite teachers, or alma mater. In every classroom small groups of students sit together in a corner or at their desks, exchanging yearbooks, pens and maudlin inscriptions. On each of the high school’s three floors, a smaller group of students, with no place to go and nothing else to do, pulls itself together into a work party and carries away armloads of textbooks into the departmental storage room. An even smaller group just wanders aimlessly about like a desert tribe without a leader or plan of action.

Every once in a while, the silence that has prevailed since the last finals period commenced is broken by the loud metallic SLAM of a locker being violently opened. This is followed by the soft thudding sounds of notebooks being carelessly dumped on the carpeted floor. Papers fly all over the place like an out-of-place snowstorm, becoming, for a few hours, a weird carpet upon a carpet. Then the silence returns, only to be broken again by the slam-thudding sounds or an infrequent “Hey-hey-hey Cobras, Number One, Cobras Num-ber One!” chant recalling football games and pep rallies of the past. The chant echoes eerily through the halls…then the silence returns, falling like a final curtain on a deserted stage. This is South Miami High on the 14th of June, 1983.

“Here you go,” I said to the attractive cheerleader (ex-cheerleader, I mentally corrected myself) whose yearbook I’d just signed. Hastily I had jotted this entry:To Ann Saroyan: It was nice having you for a classmate in English this year. It really was a trip and a half! Best Wishes, Jim. I closed the yearbook and handed it back with an I-aim-to-please smile.

Ann Saroyan – she looked sort of strange dressed in “civilian” clothes; I was accustomed to seeing her in her cheerleader’s uniform – beamed happily. Her hazel eyes gleamed with end-of-high-school joy. “Thanks, Jim,” she said. She smiled at me and handed me my yearbook. She had quickly scribbled:Good luck in the future. Love, Ann Saroyan, Class of ’83.

“Thank you,” I said after reading the inscription and closing my yearbook. “Really.”

Ann smiled again. She looked wonderful. I stood there for a minute, still thinking how strange it was to see the captain of the cheerleaders in jeans and a brown-and-beige plaid blouse. She was very pretty. She leaned toward me slightly and kissed me chastely on the cheek. “Goodbye, Jim,” she said in a half-whisper. Then glancing back over her shoulder at the clock on the wall, she gathered her belongings and walked out of the classroom, presumably to collect a few more yearbook inscriptions.

I watched her leave, and after looking around the nearly empty classroom – Mrs. DeVargas, my English 4 instructor, had departed some time before to get a cup of Sanka so she could finish grading some thirty-odd final exams in the refuge of the English Department office – I grabbed my backpack, stuffed my yearbook inside, and walked out into the corridor.

Forgotten Dreams: 14th of June 1983

11 a.m.: South Miami Senior High/ The Library

I had been sitting in the library for nearly an hour when fatigue and emotional exhaustion finally caught up with me. I’d been leafing listlessly through the final issue of the school newspaper and had nearly finished the lead article (Assistant principal announces retirement) when my eyelids suddenly dropped like shutters on a window and I drifted off into a deep slumber. I vaguely thought about classes, but –nothing ever happens on the last day – I suddenly didn’t care. Without hesitation, I put my head down on the table and allowed my mind to drop off into a misty netherworld of dreams.

This is what I dreamed:

I am sitting alone in my old English classroom at my old desk, reading from Shakespeare’s Macbeth.The only sounds in the room are the ticking of the clock and the occasional rustling of the pages of the book. Then, Martina Reynaud, the most beautiful girl in the Class of ’83, walks in. She’s tall, graceful and absolutely breathtaking. She’s wearing a black dress, one that shows off her long dancer’s legs. Her peaches-and-cream complexion is flawless; there is no sign of a pimple anywhere. Her long chestnut hair cascades down over her shoulders. In short, she is the personification of feminine elegance from the top of her head to her high-heeled shoes.

I try to get back to my reading assignment, but the scent of her perfume, a mixture of jasmine and orange blossoms, is beguiling. I look to my right; she is sitting at the desk right next to mine. She gives me a smile. My heart skips a beat. I know guys who would kill for one of Marty’s smiles. She has that effect on most men. Her smile is full of genuine warmth and affection; I can tell by the look in her hazel eyes.