Love Unspoken, Love Unbroken

“Hello, Jimmy,” said an all-too familiar voice from somewhere behind me. It was Marty. No one else at South Miami had that delightful, almost exotic English accent.

I turned around slowly until I faced her. “Hi, Marty,” I said.

She got up from one of the few chairs that had not been placed in storage and gave me a shy half-smile. “So, come to say goodbye, then?” Marty asked.

I gazed at her, committing every detail of her appearance to memory. She wore faded blue jeans, a white and orange SOUTH MIAMI CHORUS T-shirt, white socks and an old pair of Keds sneakers. Her chestnut hair was tied into a ponytail. She wore very little makeup; a touch of mascara here, a hint of blush there, a bit of lip-gloss to make things a bit interesting. She was shockingly, heartrendingly beautiful.

My heart skipped a beat. “I couldn’t go without seeing you, you know,” I said.

She smiled. “Oh, come on; I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“It’strue,” I said. “And no, I don’t say that toall the girls.”

She smiled again. “I see,” she said. “How did you do on your final?”

“Okay, I guess. How about you?”

She shrugged. “All right, I suppose. Biology isnot my cup of tea. I’ll be happy if I pass with a 75.”

I essayed a small smile. “I’m sure you did better than that,” I said.

Another shrug. “We’ll see.” She sighed.

“What?” I asked.

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” she asked wistfully.

“What?”

“That this,” she said with a sweeping gesture, “part of our lives is over, Jimmy. Three years sure went fast, didn’t they?”

“Yes – yes, they did,” I said, feeling suddenly as if the stars and the planets had been placed on my shoulders. I felt my smile vanish. I slouched forward and let out a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said unexpectedly.

“Huh?”

“That we never got to perform that duet together. Don’t you remember? For the Spring Concert?”

“Oh, yeah. What was that song we were going to sing?” I asked.

She placed her right hand on her hip and mock-pouted at me. “James Garraty, don’t tell me youforgot.”

I gave her an impishwho, me look. When she smiled, I said in a more serious tone: “‘Somewhere,’ fromWest Side Story.” I hummed the song’s first measure; it sounded a half-octave off key.

Marty frowned. “You haven’t practiced lately,” she said disapprovingly.

“No, I haven’t,” I said, and as I said it waves of melancholy washed over me like a dark tide. Marty saw my expression change; she walked up to me and placed her arm around my shoulder comfortingly.

“I know,” she said softly, “how much you were looking forward to it, Jim.I was looking forward to singing that duet with you, too.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Really. You’re a terrific singer. Who wouldn’t want to sing a duet with you?”

“I bet,” I said, “you saythat to all the boys.”

She laughed. My heart jumped as it usually did when she laughed. A thought clicked in my brain: What was it I’d written just a while ago?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.

The letter! I had almost forgotten it was still in my jacket pocket. A horrible idea occurred to me at that moment – I thought maybe it had slipped out of my pocket as I’d made my way here. I patted my left side with my free hand – Martina’s arm was still draped around my other shoulder – until I felt its weight and shape. I carefully reached inside the pocket and pulled out the now slightly creased envelope.

“What’s that?” asked Marty.

I turned slightly to my right so that I was facing her. I looked into her lovely hazel eyes. At that instant, I became aware that if I leaned forward just a bit, I could kiss her. Her arm was still resting on my shoulder. Suddenly the only thing I wanted to do was to hold her gently and kiss those lovely lips.

I shook my head. “This,” I said, “is for you.”

She reached for the envelope, but I moved it out of the way before she could take it. She looked at me with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. “Itis for me, isn’t it?” she asked peevishly.

“Yes, yes it is,” I said. “But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

I gathered my steadily dissolving reserves of courage. I gazed into her eyes again. “Promise me,” I said haltingly, “that you won’t open this until after the ceremony on Thursday.”

Marty’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Why?”

I pulled the envelope a bit farther away. “Promise me,” I said imploringly.

She sighed. Closed her eyes. Nodded. “All right,” she said softly, “I promise.”

I pressed the envelope into her free hand. She accepted it wordlessly.

The school bell rang just then, breaking the silence that had come between us with a jarring insistent dinging sound. Startled, Marty removed her arm from my shoulder. I took a small backward step, feeling a mixture of relief and regret as the physical contact was broken.

“Well,” I said in my best Harrison Ford voice, “this is it, sweetheart.” I picked up my backpack, turned toward the door and started to make my exit. As I did, I felt Marty tug at my hand. I stopped dead in my tracks.

“Hey,” she said gently as I turned around to face her, “you’re just going to leave without ¾” She hesitated, then looked directly into my eyes. “Without a kiss goodbye?”

“Well, I….”

Before I could finish my reply, the most beautiful girl in South Miami High wrapped her arms around me in a tight embrace, and, softly, tenderly, placed her lips on mine. Gently, tentatively, I returned the kiss. I closed my eyes. A million sensations hit me all at once – the scent of her perfume, the slight taste of strawberries from her lips, the clean minty taste of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest as she slowly breathed, the palpable beating of her heart, the welcome warmth of her presence – and I remembered the lyrics of the song I’d heard in my dream:

Where time's winds blow That's where you'll be; Where love's fires glow Your smile I'll see. Across the stars Across the sea; Where time's winds blow Our hearts will be

The wall clock ticked loudly. Almost reluctantly (or so I thought), Marty broke off the kiss. I opened my eyes and looked shyly at her. She gave me a sad little smile. She reached out with her right hand and gave my cheek a gentle caress.

“I’m going to miss you,” she said.

I nodded. “I’m – I’m going to miss you, Marty.”

Outside, hundreds of cheering students ran down the halls and out the nearest exits. Summer had arrived. Another school year was now, at long last, over.

Indecision washed over me like a cold tide. I still had a brief window of opportunity to say the three little words that are, paradoxically, the hardest words in the English language to express. Part of me wanted to tell Marty right there and then that I truly loved her. Part of me, however, still remembered what had happened the last time I’d saidI love you to someone. The dissolution ofthat romantic relationship had left an indelible stain on my soul. What was it that Mark had said earlier about my ex-girlfriend?She hurt you, and she hurt you pretty bad. I winced inwardly. Three years had not assuaged the pain from the breakup.

As these thoughts raced in my head, I felt the window of opportunity closing fast. I resigned myself to the easiest – but worst – of all the courses of action available to me. Unwilling to take a leap of faith, I chose not to say the three little words.

Marty simply stood there. She looked at me with a curiously hopeful mien. Looking back at the moment with some perspective, I think that she knew what was transpiring. Sometimes, in my dreams, I can clearly see a trace of sadness, of regret at what-might-have-been, in those lovely hazel eyes. At the age of eighteen, however, the things that are so evident to adults aren’t so easily discerned.

She looked at her watch. She gave me an apologetic look. “Look, my ride is waiting outside,” she said. “I have to go.”

“Uh, okay,” I said.

Marty walked over to the chair she’d been sitting on when I had entered the room. Her big, brown leather purse lay next to it. She picked it up, looked quizzically at the envelope I’d handed her, then placed the letter inside the purse. She slung the purse over her shoulder. She looked over her shoulder at me, and I could see that expectant expression on her face.

“Take care of yourself, Jimmy,” she said softly. “Knock ‘em dead at Harvard, okay?”

“I will,” I replied. I felt a stinging sensation in my eyes. I rubbed my hand across my face in what I hoped was a casual manner. I didn’t want Marty to see tears welling up in my eyes.

She grabbed her purse tightly, gave me a final smile, then walked out of the chorus practice room before I could say anything. I watched her leave, then I stared sadly at the now-empty space she had just occupied.

“Oh, well,” I sighed as I strapped on my backpack and slowly walked toward the door.

As I stepped out onto the hallway, I stopped in my tracks. I took two, three more steps. I looked over my shoulder at the empty chorus room. It looked so dead now. I felt strangely torn. I was unwilling to leave, unable to stay.

I heard the door at the far end of the hallway swing open. Then I heard familiar footsteps approaching. After going to three different schools for seven years, I knew it was Mark.

“Hi, Mark,” I said.

“Hey, pal. I thought I’d find you here,” Mark said.

I sighed wearily.

“Did you find her?” Mark asked tentatively.

“Yeah.”

“Did you tell her how you feel?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“What did she say?”

I turned around to face my best friend. Concern born of seven years’ worth of friendship was written on his open face. Whatever his faults, you could never accuse Mark of being unconcerned.

“I – ah – wrote her a letter,” I said slightly embarrassed.

“I see,” he said quietly. He pursed his lips. “Did she say anything?”

“I asked her not to read it until after commencement.”

“I see,” he said again. I could tell he was disappointed in me.

There was another one of those awkward silences. I felt oddly like a mischievous schoolboy who’d been sent to the principal’s office for some infraction of the rules. Mark just shook his head in disbelief and gave me atut-tut look.

“You know,” he said quietly, “sometimes playing it safe can be the worst thing you can do.”

“Macht nichts,” I said bitterly.

“Like hell,macht nichts, pal. It makes a hell of a difference, if you ask me.” Mark shook his head sadly. “I really don’t want to be there when you find out for yourself what a stupid mistake it is that you made today.”

I accepted this rebuke stoically.

We slowly walked out of the music department wing, up the steps that led to the corridor connecting that section with the rest of the building. There were just a few students on campus now. Those that remained gathered in twos and threes, looking either overjoyed or forlorn – the day was not one for intermediate emotions, it seemed. Some waved us goodbye as we passed by, others gave us exuberant thumbs-ups. “See you guys at commencement!” shouted some guy from my American government class as we reached the main entrance by the school office. Without breaking stride, Mark and I waved in farewell.

“Well,” said Mark quietly, “this is the last time we’re going to pass through these doors.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

We stopped just a few feet from the doorway. We turned and looked around the vestibule. Everything – the office area, the hallways, and the brightly lit cafeteria – was taking on a strange sheen of unreality, as if the building and everything in it were being pulled into another dimension.

Mark tugged at my jacket sleeve. “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Yeah,” I said.

Mark pushed the door open. He looked at me impatiently.

“Yeah,” I said. “I want to go home.”

With quick, deliberate strides, I stepped out into the brightly sunlit June afternoon. A warm breeze wafted gently from the west. In the trees, barely heard above the din of cars and buses on the adjacent street, a mockingbird sang.

***

February 1998: A Conversation Between Friends

“Hey, Jim,” Mark says softly as he walks up to where I’m standing. “Been here long?”

I look up from Marty’s grave. I glance at my watch; it’s been an hour since I got here. “An eternity,” I say.

Mark bends down and places a small floral arrangement on the small brass marker with Marty’s name and dates of birth and death.Martina Elizabeth Reynaud. March 6, 1965 – February 19, 1998. Beloved Daughter and Sister. There are several other such arrangements, including one from me. I chose a half-dozen pink roses. Pink because that was her favorite color. Roses because I had always intended to give her a bouquet for Valentine’s Day. I never did, though. Besides, the English have a knack for growing roses.

“You all right?” Mark asks.

“I don’t think so,” I reply. I’m too tired, too numb, to lie.

“It’s always so sad when things like this happen,” Mark said quietly.

I nod. “You know, Mark, you were right.”

Mark looks at me with confusion in his pale blue eyes. “Huh?”

“Do you recall what you said to me on the last day of school?” I ask.

“I said a lot of things, Jim. But that was, what? 14? 15 years ago?”

“You said that if I didn’t tell her how I felt, it would come back someday and bite me on my ass.”

“That sounds like something I would say.”

“I hate to admit it,” I say, “but you were right.”

“I was wise beyond my years,” Mark says lightly.

“At the time, I thought you were just messing with my head.”

“Iwas messing with your head. I was also telling you the truth.”

“Yeah,”

I say. “Well, I always wondered how things would have turned out if I had told her.”

Mark purses his lips and furrows his brows a bit. “I think you should have told her in ’82, if you ask me.”

“Hmm. Why?”

“Well, the way I see it, that way you could have dated Marty for a while – a year, at least – before graduation. Telling her at the last minute – even a few weeks or months before school ended – would have done nothing.”

I think about this assessment for a few minutes. “I know,” I say. “It wouldn’t have lasted longer than a few months. We had so much to do in the last weeks at South Miami, then her dad gave her that trip to London. By the time she got back, I was already on my way to Cambridge.”

“Why didn’t you at least try to ask her out after she and Kenny broke up?”

“I didn’t have the guts to,” I answer. “I wasn’t sure if I was ready for another relationship after breaking up with Kathy. I didn’t know if Marty liked me.” I look down at the floral arrangements around Marty’s grave. “I was a kid. I was insecure, I guess.”

A breeze drifts softly across the cemetery from the north, stirring the flowers’ petals ever so gently. The aromas of roses, gardenias and chrysanthemums blend in an eerie fashion. The result is a scent suggestive of Marty’s favorite perfume.

I close my eyes. I remember how she looked on that long ago June afternoon. She had worn faded blue jeans, a white and orange SOUTH MIAMI CHORUS T-shirt, white socks and an old pair of Keds sneakers. Her brown hair had been tied into a ponytail.

The memory fades momentarily. Another ethereal image takes its place. It’s the dream sequence that had been interrupted by the school bell nearly 15 years ago.

Marty and I are dancing as if we have been dance partners forever. As we sway and sashay across that mystical ballroom where we’re 18 years old and everything is possible, I look into Marty’s eyes. She gives me an inquisitive glance. “What is it, Jimmy?” she asks.

“Have I told you how pretty you look?” I ask.

“I bet,” she replies with an impish smile, “you say that to every pretty woman you meet.”

“Oh, no. Just you.”

She laughs.

“Marty?”

“Hmm?”

“You look very pretty tonight.”

She closes her eyes and lays her head on my shoulder. “Thank you,” she says.

“Marty?” I whisper tentatively.

“Hmm?”

“I have something to say,” I venture with trepidation. Even in my dreams, this is always the hardest moment, the part I call leaving the Line of Departure.

She straightens up and gazes directly into my eyes. A familiar expectant expression appears on her face. It’s the same look she gave me when I handed her that letter. Curiosity, anticipation and a touch of regret and sadness are combined in that look.

“I love you, Marty, and I always will,” I say, echoing the very words I’d written in real life.

She looks at me pensively. She says nothing; she simply nods in acknowledgment.

Suddenly, the vision vanishes. The dream, which has changed little over the past 15 years, dissolves into nothingness. As always, the dream’s irresolution leaves behind a wake of sadness and regret. I never know what’s worse – having the dream at all, or not knowing how it will end.

“Hey, are you all right?” Mark asks solicitously.

“Huh?” I ask, momentarily startled.

“I thought I’d lost you for a minute there.”

“Oh,” I say, “I was just lost in thought, I guess.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Eventually, I suppose.”

Mark looks at his watch. “I have to get going, Jim. I’ve got a house to show in the Gables area in about an hour,” he explains apologetically.

“Yeah, sure,” I say.

“I’ll catch up to you later, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay,” he says. He pats me gently on the shoulder, then leaves.

I stand alone next to Marty’s grave, acutely aware of the solemn silence of the cemetery. It’s somewhat unnerving, this stillness.

I can’t believe you’re gone, Marty, I think.I can’t believe I’ve lost you again.

I look at my watch. I’ve been here for two hours. I look down at Marty’s grave, pondering the choices I made when I was young and insecure. What an awful price we humans pay when we make the wrong choices, the wrong decisions. It is ironic, isn’t it? In my history classes I always tell my students that bad decisions in wartime cost lives. The MARKET-GARDEN plan, for instance, was doomed to failure by – among other things – Montgomery’s disregard for intelligence reports that revealed the presence of German armor at Arnhem. He chose to ignore those reports, launched the operation anyway and failed to reach his objective. Well, I suppose my decision not to tell Marty how I felt in time for her to tell me how she felt was just as bad. Now she’s dead, killed in a stupid car wreck, and I’ll never know one way or the other. That’s the worst part. Not knowing, I mean.

A brisk northerly breeze blows across the cemetery. It’s chilly; the weather reports all say there is a cold front moving in. The zephyr moans sadly through the limbs of the trees and the wrought iron fence railings atop the high brick wall. An apt accompaniment to the scene, I think.

“I miss you, Marty,” I say wistfully as I take one last look at her grave. “I love you, and I always will.”

With that, I slowly turn around and make my way to the parking lot, wondering why I’d saidthat now, wishing I had said it 15 years ago– when it might have made a difference.