Love Unspoken, Love Unbroken

“Hi, Jimmy,” she says. Her voice is soft and melodious; she speaks with a lilting British accent. From what I’ve heard, her family is from England. London, actually.

“Hi,” I reply, feeling about as articulate as your average mango. Then, mustering my last reserves of willpower, I focus my attention on Shakespeare’s play.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” I recite slowly, like a child learning to read for the first time, “creeps in this petty pace from day to day….”

I falter. I try to read further, but the urge to sneak a peek at Marty is irresistible. It is easier to stop an avalanche than to resist the temptation. I put the book down again and I steal a furtive glance at her, hoping fervently she won’t catch me.

Suddenly, her hazel eyes meet mine.

I freeze, thinking that soon I will be flying across the classroom.

I close my eyes, expecting – what? A rebuke? A sarcastic laugh? A stiletto to the heart?

Nothing happens.

I open my eyes. Blink once. Blink twice. Look around.

The classroom is, well, gone. Instead of being in a room with thirty-five desks, a blackboard, a lectern, a teacher’s desk and a bookshelf, I am standing in the middle of what looks like the ballroom in a fashionable hotel. Confused, I look to my right to see if Marty is still there. Yes, she is still there. She gives me another one of those dazzling smiles.

“Come on, Jimmy, let’s dance,” she says. She extends her right hand invitingly and gives me a come-hither stare. In the background, a Fifties-style rock band, dressed in white tuxes, begins to play.

I hesitate. I take her outstretched hand, but my feet feel as though they are stuck in industrial strength concrete. “I’m not a good dancer,” I gasp.

“Come on,” she repeats softly, almost imploringly, “it’s a slow dance.” She tugs insistently at my hand. I don’t dare resist.

The band starts to play, and Martina pulls me closer to her. She places my left hand on her waist and holds my other hand gently but firmly to her side as we sway to the beat of the music. She is right; it is a slow dance. I feel as though I am Fred Astaire. The music picks up momentum. As we dance, my ears prick up as the bandleader segues from instruments to the vocalist.

Where time's winds blow That's where you are; Your bright eyes glow Like distant stars.

My heart aches with pent-up yearning as I hold the girl of my dreams in my arms. I look into those wonderful eyes and a million questions rush into my fevered mind at that instant. I try to speak, but Marty places her index finger on my lips and gently shushes me with a Mona Lisa smile. “Don’t say a word,” she whispers. “Let’s just dance, okay?”

I nod meekly, and she gently lays her head on my shoulder. We dance as smoothly and flawlessly as if we have been dance partners forever. As I close my eyes and follow the rhythm of the song, I feel Marty’s heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of her breathing – we’rethat close.

Where time's winds blow Things cannot last; We come and we go Like ships that pass. Love's not always sweet, nor is it just "tomorrows" It has sharp edges, barbs, and is full of sorrows; Yet we must love, and face the storm When time's winds blow.....

The music stops after a while, and we stand in the center of the ballroom, still in each other’s arms. I try again to collect my thoughts, to formulate a question, but all I can think about is her presence. Finally, I manage to whisper: “Marty, I….”

Just then, the school bell – irrelevant now because there were no real classes in session – rang loudly, shattering my dream like a bomb blast breaking a mirror.

I awoke with a start, hating the damned school bell with every fiber of my soul.

Scenes from a Long Good bye: 14th of June, 1983

The school cafeteria was nearly as deserted as a ghost town. I sat alone at one of the outermost tables, picking at my lunch with little enthusiasm. It wasn’t that the food was awful – for cafeteria fare, the Salisbury steak wasn’t too bad, really. I wasn’t all that hungry. My headache was receding somewhat, but the emptiness of the school, the sense that this was going to a day full of finality (The final moments of the Class of ’83, crowed the last issue ofThe Serpent’s Tale) simply was a bit too much for my already overloaded emotional defenses. I picked up the plastic utensil known colloquially as a “spork” and ate a few bites of Salisbury steak without enthusiasm, like a condemned man eating a last meal.

I heard the sound of a chair being pulled away from the table and felt, rather than saw, Mark Prieto’s presence.

“So, how are you, Jim?” Mark asked as he placed his lunch tray on the cafeteria table and sat down across from me.

“I’ve got a bit of a headache,” I replied without looking up from my half-eaten lunch. I picked at my Salisbury steak listlessly with my plastic Spork.

“How did your finals go?” Mark asked.

“I only had one test this morning – in economics. We didn’t have a test in chorus.” I looked at Mark, then at my Spork. A piece of Salisbury steak was impaled on its tines. Cold gravy dripped onto the tray with little wet splashing sounds. I put the plastic utensil on the tray. Suddenly I wasn’t very hungry anymore.

“Oh, yeah,” Mark said. I could almost see the proverbial light bulb clicking on above his head. “Mrs. Quincy left in March, didn’t she?” Mark was referring to the chorus director’s unexpected departure three months earlier; Mrs. Quincy had been offered the choral director’s position at the Julliard School of Music. “It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Mrs. Quincy had said when she announced her decision, “and if there isanything I want you to learn from me is that you have to take advantage of these rare opportunities.”

I blinked with surprise when Mrs. Quincy’s words resounded in my mind. A snippet of visual memory flickered before me like an old newsreel: as our teacher was giving us an explanation of why she was leavingbefore the Spring Concert in May, I was gazing at Martina, who sat with the altos and sopranos across the chorus room from my seat in the bass section. She didn’t notice; she was paying attention to Mrs. Quincy. Our teacher’s announcement had caught us all unaware, and on Marty’s face there was shock and disappointment. I looked around the room; everyone had a stunned, what-are-we-going-to-do mien. Some of the girls wept unabashedly.

A substitute teacher, a semi-famous concert cellist named Mr. Abner, came to class the following day and tried to keep things going. We dutifully attended class and tried to follow our routine of vocal exercises and practicing the last pieces Mrs. Quincy had selected for the Spring Concert, but our hearts were not in it. Some of the singers – the underclassmen, mostly – were so disheartened by Mrs. Quincy’s departure that they never sang another note and used their class time as an ersatz Study Hall. The seniors, including Marty and me, tried to keep things going as if by sheer willpower we could pull off one last concert before graduation. But with no real leadership from Mr. Abner and one-third of the class abstaining from even basic practice, it all fell apart. In the end, there was no Spring Concert, and we never sang another note on stage.

I sighed and shook my head to clear away this bitter memory. As I did, I realized how empty the cafeteria was. Only five tables were occupied.

“Hey, dude,” Mark said, “did you hear what I said?”

I looked at Mark dazedly. “Huh?”

He shook his head in irritation. “I asked you if Mrs. Quincy retired in March, man.”

“Oh. Yeah, in March.” This conversation was not getting my morale any better. I decided to change the subject. “Speaking of finals, how didyou do?”

He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. “Me? Ithink I passed algebra. I did okay in world history, even though you’re the brain in the topic.” He paused. “So, only one final, huh? Lucky dog.”

I looked at Mark blankly and shrugged noncommittally.

“So, are you gonna stay here till 2:30, or are you gonna go to the beach?” Mark asked.

“I don’t know yet,” I lied.

Mark’s eyes narrowed. Heknew I was lying, and he didn’t appreciate it. “Don’t bullshit me, pal. You’re going to stay – and you’re hoping you’ll get to seeher before the final bell rings.”

“Her?”

“Yes,her. Marty. The girl you’ve been dreaming about for three years in a row. The one you’ve neveractually told how much you like. Do I need to draw you a word picture?”

I looked down at my tray. The cold Salisbury steak looked even less appetizing than it had just a minute earlier. I reached for my milk carton and took a sip.

“So, are you going totell her?” Mark asked. He was, and still is, a persistent fellow.

Good question, I thought as I stared blankly into space.Am I going to march up to Martina Elizabeth and tell her that I love her? I pondered the question carefully as though it was part of some unscheduled final exam. Instead of answers, however, all I could come up with was a series of dilemmas.

I noticed that Mark was still staring at me with a quizzical look on his face. “What?” I yelped.

“You haven’t answered my question, man,”

I looked down, inhaled deeply, looked up and exhaled very slowly. “I, uh, don’t know.” I turned my gaze to my lunch tray, the other tables, and the clock on the wall. Anything to avoid my best friend’s inquisitive gaze.

“I’ll take that as a resounding ‘no,’” Mark said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“No,” Mark said, “but it’s what you meant to say.”

“I – I can’t tell her. Not now.”

“Why thefuck not?” Mark asked, his voice rising in pitch and volume. A group of student journalists fromThe Serpent’s Tale – Alan Goode, Francisco Vargas, Juan Calderon and Roger Lawrence – looked at us with bemused expressions from one of the neighboring tables. Mark noticed, cleared his throat and lowered his voice to a half-whisper. “Why don’t you tell her, you dumbass?”

“Ican’t,” I repeated, shaking my head emphatically.

“What are you so afraid of?”

Another good question. “Nothing…everything,” I replied.

“What, pray tell, do you mean?” Mark asked. “Are you more afraid that she doesn’t like you, or that shedoes?”

“I don’tknow, dammit!” NowI was raising my voice, and even the ever-present assistant principal turned in my direction to see what the hubbub was about. It was my turn to calm down and lower my voice.

“Is it, um, Kathy?” Mark asked.

“Did you have to mentionher?” I felt my eyes narrow in barely repressed anger. “What relevance does that little -” and here I paused as I searched for just the right word, “bitch have in any of this?”

“You know,” Mark said coolly, “for a future historian, you are actually pretty stupid. Why are you ignoring your own past?”

“Kathy is irrelevant,” I said. “Macht nichts.” I added in German. Roughly translated, it means“it makes no difference.”

“I don’t think so. She hurt you, and she hurt you pretty bad.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, she did. She lied to me, and she cheated on me. I still don’t see whatshe has to do with this.”

Mark raised his hand and held his palm outward. “Wait Hear me out.”

“Okay, fine.”

“I think,” Mark said quietly, “that you haven’t told Marty how you feel for several reasons.” He made a fist, then extended one finger. “One, you’re not sure if she likes you.”

I nodded.

He extended another finger and continued. “Two, you’ve waited too long, and you are afraid that even if she does like you, you’ll be with her only a little while before you have to go to Boston.”

I nodded again.

“Finally,” Mark said, extending a third finger, “you’re wondering if, in the remote likelihood that you have a ‘long distance relationship,’ she’ll leave you for someone else.”Like Kathy, he did not add. Then again, he didn’t have to.

I closed my eyes and nodded yet again.

“Oh, man,” Mark said quietly.

There was a long silent interval as we sat at our table. I looked down at my shoes. Mark stared fixedly at me. Finally, he broke the uneasy silence that hung between us like the Berlin Wall.

“I’d tell her anyway, if I were you,” he said. “If you don’t, regret is going to come back and bite you on the ass someday. Think about it, Jim.”

In my mind, a grainy black-and-white image formed. Ingrid Bergman. Humphrey Bogart. The airfield scene inCasablanca. What was Bogey’s classic line about regret?If you don’t get on that plane, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life. I could almost hearAs Time Goes By tinkling in the background.

Mark rose from his chair and gave me a lopsided grin. “Look, I’m going to say goodbye to a couple of people before they go off who-knows-where. See you around, dude.”

I managed to give him a thumbs-up. “See you, man,” I said.

***

1:40 p.m.

June 14, 1983

My dearest Martina,

I’m not sure if I am doing the right thing by telling you this now, or if I should tell you this at all. I wish I had the answers.

I can’t believe our three years at SMSH have come to an end. It seems as though only yesterday we were sophomores starting our high school years. I can close my eyes and see you exactly as you were that moment when you stepped into Mrs. Quincy’s 3rd period class – you looked so cute and sweet. Since that day in 1980 I have come to know you pretty well. You are not only a beautiful girl young woman, but you’re also kind, thoughtful and intelligent.

I know I have picked an awful time to tell you this, Marty, but I have been in love with you for a long time. Perhaps not in the beginning, for 3 years ago I was having a hard time coping with the end of a two-year relationship with someone who, unfortunately, was unfaithful. I was hurt and terribly insecure. In some ways I still am hurt and insecure. That having been said, however, the truth is that somewhere along the line, I fell in love with you.

I didn’t tell you before for various reasons. First, I suppose, is the fact that in 10th grade you were seeing someone else, and you seemed to be content back then. I never expected that you and Kenny would go your separate ways, but then I thought my own relationship with my ex-girlfriend would last forever Life, I have learned, is full of surprises.

Martina, I’ve loved you not just because you are one of the prettiest women I’ve known. Your looks are, of course, part of what attracts me to you. But you are the one of the most generous and sweetest souls that I have met in my 18 years, and you are the one person who has the ability to brighten up a sour day. You have always managed to make me return a smile to someone else. As I write this, I can hear the clock ticking. There isn’t much time left to our last day of high school. I wish I had enough time to tell you how I feel about you, but I haven’t the courage, the words, the space or the time to fully express my feelings. I looked at my watch just now – 1:39 p.m. to be precise. I wish for so many things, Marty. I hope you understand what I’m trying to tell you. I love you, my dear Marty, and I always will.

With all my love and affection,

Jim

The library was so quiet. But then again, it was supposed to be quiet. The QUIET PLEASE signs and the smoldering glare of the librarians made sure this was so. Still, on this last day of school it was deathly quiet, and no wonder: I was alone among the bookshelves and study tables. The only sound I had heard had been the scratching of the pen against the paper as I was writing. That, and the loud ticking of the wall clock.

The clock! I looked over my shoulder at the clock, then at my wristwatch.2:00 p.m.! Damn it! I’ve only got 30 minutes to find Marty!

I hurriedly folded the letter I’d just finished and stuffed it into an envelope I had acquired from the school librarian. I wroteFor Marty – Do not open until after Graduation on the front of the envelope. Carefully, I put the now-sealed envelope in my jacket pocket. It stuck out a bit, but it didn’t feel as though it would easily fall out if I ran or jogged. Oh, well, what was done, was done. I looked at my watch again, picked up my backpack – that yearbook was getting heavier by the minute, or so it seemed – and made my way out of the library.

***

2:15 p.m.

The school was as quiet as an abandoned ship as I walked along the extensive and empty hallways – now covered by a layer of the detritus of now-empty lockers – towards the music department wing. I had no idea why Iknew Marty would be there. I hadn’t seen her on the second floor, and although there was always the possibility that she’d left campus, somehow I had the feeling she would be in the chorus practice room.

I half-walked, half-ran past the cafeteria and down the steps that led to the music department wing. I quickened my pace as I made a right turn and pushed a door open; past it lay the department’s band, chorus, guitar and piano practice rooms. I wasn’t an athlete; I’d only taken the two-year PE courses half-heartedly, and I was really way out of shape. My sneakers made heavypad-pad-pad sounds as I ran, and I was beginning to hyperventilate. I wheezed like a victim of an asthma attack. A bead of sweat, bright, heavy and salty, dripped down into my left eye, blinding me for a second or two. I slowed down to avoid becoming one with a wall or closed door. Fortunately, the chorus practice room wasn’t far away. I came to a stop and, placing my backpack on the floor, leaned against the wall to catch my breath, collect my thoughts, and tidy up my appearance.

As I stood there, just a few feet away from the open door of the choral practice room, I heard Marty’s lilting voice as she said goodbye to two of her friends. My heart skipped a beat as I realized my intuition had led me toher. She sounded tired, or perhaps sad, and I hesitated, not wanting to go in and disturb her. I stood there for a moment; it was only a minute or so, but it seemed like an eternity.

Two girls, walking backward and waving their hands in leave-taking, turned around and saw me standing there, leaning against the wall with my hands jammed tightly in my jeans’ pockets. They smiled at me; one of them, a tall, pretty redhead whose name I didn’t remember, walked up to me and hugged me.

“Well, fellow graduate, we’re finally outta here,” the redhead said when we were apart once again. “I haven’t had a chance to ask, but what are your plans, Jim?”

I smiled sheepishly. “I’m going to college in the fall,” I said.

“Whereare you going to school?” asked the redhead’s companion, a blonde from my fifth period art class. Her name was Maria Theresa.

“Ah, Harvard,” I said.

“Congratulations,” Maria Theresa said politely.

“Good luck,” said Redhead with more enthusiasm. She leaned close and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. I blushed, embarrassed because I couldn’t remember her name.

“Well,” Maria Theresa said presently, “see you at the graduation.” She led Redhead away like a woman leading her pet poodle. Redhead looked back at me over her shoulder and waved.

I stood there quietly, debating whether or not to go inside the chorus room. I glanced at my watch. It was now 2:22 p.m.; only eight minutes left. When that final bell rang, a school year – and a phase of my life – would end.

Well, it’s now or never, kid, I thought.

I felt like a GI about to hit the beaches of Normandy on D-Day.My, you’re full of happy thoughts, I chided myself.

Grabbing my backpack, I took a deep breath, pushed the heavy door ajar, and stepped inside.

Like most of the school now, the chorus room had the ambiance of a deserted house. The metal music stands, songbooks and piano scores were locked away in the storage closet in the back of the soundproof room. In a corner of the room, the black Kawai piano with the sticky C-note was shrouded with a protective canvas cover; it looked like a corpse covered with a sheet. I looked at the empty space where it had been only a few hours before. Snippets of memories flashed before me like mental newsreels: Mrs. Quincy sitting on her piano bench, peering at the sheet music through bifocal lenses and playing the keyboard with gusto…Mrs. Quincy correcting our off-key slips or breaks in pitch…our attempts to keep a straight face while learning the lyrics to a particularly hilarious song. I smiled wistfully at these visions of the not-so-long-ago past, wanting to keep the moment etched deeply in my mind and not wanting it to dissolve – like the dream – forever. I placed my backpack on the tiled floor.