The end of the other half..

by sanfranciscobabe

Posted to Stories on 2002-02-20 21:14:00

She met a well dressed man with a fascinating face on the way home from a party. She was a teenager, wearing a silly frilly dress, he was considerably older, gentle, and lent her his lilac suede jacket.
The next time that they met, she leapt out of an old car into the middle of the road, and the coversation that they had started 2years previously continued..
He said that they may go to Macchu Picchu to walk the Inca trail, but having no money for planes, perhaps just take a ride out to a mystical place on the coast where witches still dwell in caves, fishing boats sail into the pink dawn, and fairies are to be found on the dewy clifftops.
She said “I won’t call you.” and two days later, they were sitting on a doorstep in the afternoon sun, drinking extravagant champagne.
“Who IS this guy?” people said. “He is 20years older than you!” people said. “Why do you talk on the phone into the early hours?” people said. “I KNOW that you didn’t come home last night.” people said.
Meanwhile she was taking dawn taxi rides past misty fields where a river ran, and horses roamed, nursing the new legends that he taught, and wearing unfamiliar shirts that already smelled familiar and desirable.
They smoked and drank pink wine (her) and jack daniels (him) and listened to Led Zeppelin (What is and what should never be..)and Tom Waits, always Tom Waits, had midnight picnics, ran up and down the garden naked in the snow, crashed cars, frightened each other with scary tales, bought books, walked by the water, cooked elaborate meals, talked and talked and talked and talked, sat in bars doing crosswords, had baths, wore each others clothes, spent nights in funny hotels, made love on the train, slept happily and comfortably, made stories, got jobs, lost jobs, took taxis, knew a million people, but somehow she got restless.
Her excuse was that she was a 19year old girl, and all of her friends were men over the age of 35.. She thought that she was missing something.
So she ran away.
Obviously, he found her.
Fighting and weak justification (on her part) ensued. “I will sit on your doorstep” he said, “You cannot get rid of me.” but he did not say the ‘L’ word, so she continued to battle for a freedom that was not so much fun, actually, because she believed that she had something to prove.
Not having discovered anything much at all, except how difficult life is when you are no-one’s favourite person,and all of your sweet friends have their own commitments, they began, again, to talk all night. What they said, she does not know, but they would pause: “I am just going to open some wine, hang on..” or “I need the bathroom, I’ll call you straight back, stay there..” Days were weary and bleary-eyed, but the night life was esoteric and fulfilling. Talking of books and mutual friends and their days, they were each others’ diary.
Living at opposite ends of the country, visits were short-lived, but comfortable. There were girls and boys on the scene, but together they held hands, read to one another, walked about the place looking at the lights and laughing, shared the familiar warm bed, turning, sleeping, talking, sleeping.
“I only get a proper night’s sleep when you are here.” he said.
5, 6, 7, 8 years of familiarity passed, coming together and drifting, but never too far. One morning, walking together over a bridge that was glittering with frost, wearing his jacket and nice roundy-toed boots, she thought “I must remember how perfect this is. I must remember how happy right in this moment I am.” and she has.
There was a lot of drunkenness and joy, they were a lot funnier together than it seems, but those sorts of jokes do not travel..
They did not notice weight gain/loss, their desire did not lessen, they did not comment on paltry jobs, they ignored brief forays into short-lived romances with other people, they did not think of insignificant details, they knew that they were right, and that their time was coming..
They were the only people that could spend 24hours a day, 7days a week, together, and not get frustrated or confused.
She would appear from time to time shattered from the dusty train journey, rearrange the apartment, make herself at home, and they would lie around discussing their mad old age. She had a college course to finish, although her mind was made up as to her future.
“But you have fallen out with him!” people said. “You have moved around and made other friends!” people said. They were standing up for her long after she had made her peace. This time she didn’t comment.
Gradually, the idea began to take root in everyone’s minds. “They are still together, despite all of the nonsense.” people thought. “Perhaps we can cope with it after all.”
They continued wandering through their social life with extraordinary friends (Matt & Andrea who hitch hiked naked after an impossible experience, the beautiful Sam, who fell in love with Victoria in sadder times, the ever-present Blackie, childhood friend, hero – of hers, although he thought her an insignificant chick in the early days – and fellow singer of ‘I’m gonna booglarise you baby’- Frank Zappa (splg?), sweet Terry the work colleague who coped with all of the disorganised mornings, Spoz who wasn’t a naughty man after all.. etc.)
“After college is finished…” she said, endlessly. He probably believed her. Talk was comfortable by then, they functioned – once again – as a partnership, although they weren’t living under the same roof for the moment.
Soon after New Year (which they had reluctantly spent apart, he whooping it up with friends, she wishing she had spent the extortionate train fare to be there too), they talked all night on the phone.
“I have a present for you.” he said “But if you don’t come soon, I will give it to someone else.”
She knew that no-one else would, or could, appreciate it. It was a red, cloth-bound book that only the two of them were excited by, she knew that it was hers alone..
“I will come as soon as I can.” she said. They sat in their respective apartments, talking on the phone in bed, drinking wine, and smoking.
“I love you.” she said, towards morning. “Do you?” he said, “Are you IN love with me?”. She replied “No, of course not, but I have loved you for so many years, it’s just normal now. I don’t enjoy the same closeness with anyone else, ever..” etc. The conversation ended with mutual expressions of tenderness, soft voices, and the floodgates had opened.
The possibilities were now endless, since the deep feelings had been admitted, and no-one was trying to pretend that life required anything else.
“I need a secretary..” he said, pretending to mull the situation over in his mind. “I can type, as you well know.” she said.
This took place on January 2nd.
Several phone conversations, and failed plans to dance together followed. She could not leave her little room with fairy lights because she had horrible deadlines looming. The end of the course was near, however, so she didn’t feel guilty about prolonging the distance. She wasn’t agonised by the separation (and neither was he) because they were both getting along with life ok, having fun, spring was on its way, and by the time summer came, they would be moving in the right direction, they assumed.
One night, in February, he phoned late. By the time she answered, he had gone, leaving the message “Well, I want to see you, do you want to come and tidy my house, or what?!” which made her laugh. The following week he said “You are not answering my call, and I don’t know why..”
Of course, she had every intention of phoning and talking of stardust and warmth, but she thought that she should get the terrible business of work (and the sleepless nights typing essays and scrambling through college books)out of the way first..
On the 4th March, before she awoke, her mother called her on her mobile phone and left a grim-sounding message “It’s mum. Call me.” then, a little while later, the same thing.
“Fuck..” she thought. “Something is wrong.” The tone of voice was one that everyone hears at one time or another and it harbours bad tidings.
She called her back. “You are going to have to be very brave.” her mother said. Of course, family fears crowded her brain “it’s grandpa? Roger? Victoria’s new baby? oh, for God’s sake, tell me..”
Her mother’s voice sounded as though there had been tears, as though straining to keep herself together. She did not yet realise that this emotion was on her behalf.. mother feeling for daughter..
“Something terrible has happened.” her mother said. “Is he ok?” she said, calmly, as though to calm her parent.
“No.” her mother said. “You are going to have to be very brave.” her mother repeated. “I am phoning you now because it may be in the newspapers.”
He had been murdered the previous night in a bar in the quiet medieval market town in which he lived. It was 4 minutes walk from the house, and in a place that they had enjoyed, and known people for years.. The bridge and river were intact. There seemed to have been no dreadful disagreement, apparently no demon rising with a past grudge. Just a drunken man (woman?), with a knife, who needed to do something about whatever he (she?) was feeling at the time..
The trial has not happened yet. As the act was not, apparently, actually observed by anyone in the room, no-one will ever know what really happened.
All she knew was that she had to get to him, for she was afraid to think of those last seconds before he fell, couldn’t bear the thought that he may have been aware that he was hurt.
She got on the damned train again. The journey was everlasting, and her family were afraid for her.
His dear, familiar body was kept in a hospital morgue for weeks, whilst the official business went on.
She finally got to see him, and kiss him, and look at his familiar toes, and fingernails. She wore a new shirt to show him, and read some favourite stories.
They left her alone just long enough to overcome her natural anxiety, and she wished with her whole heart that she could just sleep there, and keep him company. She placed a poem (asking him to wait for her)and a lock of her hair under the third button of his shirt, just between chest and belly, to keep him company. They let her take a curl of his hair also, and were very kind and understanding about the peculiar necessity of it all..
Eventually, the day before the funeral, she found enough courage to go to the apartment, which had been left empty.
A good friend of hers waited in the night-time street, down below, walking up and down in the rain, supporting her but letting her go up the stairs and turn the key in the lock alone.
Everything was as she expected. She lay on the bed and inhaled his familiar smell, thankful that it remained. He had now been dead a month, and she had been warned that his spirit was not present in the house, but her knowledge of familiar routines comforted her: there was the towel from the morning bath left to dry, his half-drained coffee cup in the kitchen. His scuffed blue jeans were on the bed from the daytime, exchanged for evening smarter black. Likewise his patterned shirt hanging from the bedroom doorhandle.
During the course of the previous few weeks, she had passed the apartment several times, looking up, distressed that the windows were shrouded in darkness, and no sound issued from within.
She put all of the lamps on, danced on the familiar rug which had been the scene of kicking off of shoes, friends sitting chatting, lovemaking, and fiddled with the stereo, trying to find songs in the mass of untidy cd’s that they had particularly shared.
Finally, she went into the bedroom. She extracted some items of her clothing from the communal cupboard, but left some, thinking that wherever his things ended up, hers would go too.
She undressed, completely, lit a cigarette, and put on his jeans. She was talking aloud, all of the time, laughing at him laughing at her trying to get her girly shape into his long lean trouser-legs.. Her mobile phone rang. Entertaining a mad thought that it might be him, she answered hopefully (she had read somewhere that such things were occasionally possible). It was her bestest girly friend, who was concerned about her.
“Where are you?” her lovely friend asked. “In the house!” she replied. “Oh God! are you ok?”
Whilst talking, she walked around in the ill-fitting jeans. She was concerned about one particular thing. She had taken the various pieces of clothing that were relevant to her memories, as well as various sentimental items (stones, books, shaving brush, hairbrush, the shampoo that he had bought on the day he died, her coffee mug, a dried flower etc.) she didn’t really know what was appropriate..
She had searched the familiar bookcases, and the bedroom and lounge, but could not find the red cloth-bound book that was her special present.
Her friend suggested that she look by the phone (although that particular phone conversation had taken place over a month ago.)
There it was, open at the place where the story-telling had left off. She recognised it by its description. Exactly where he had put it before going to sleep before they had said goodnight, and talked of how much they loved one another.