Minor Differences, A Love Story

ProetryPlace Blog 43 Minor Differences

(Conclusion)

    Mik stirred the ice and liquor slowly, chilling the Absolute and Martini & Rossi Extra Dry until the flask developed a haze of condensation, the signal to decant.

    “Sure you won’t have one with me?” he asked. “I need to talk with you about something. It may take a while.”

    “No thanks, babe. I’m pretty mellow already.” Nettie opened the oven door, checking the chicken casserole she had prepared for their dinner. It was one of her specialties, and already it smelled delicious.

    “Then just come sit with me.” Mik strained the cold, clear liquid into a wide-mouthed, long-stemmed martini glass, the kind he reserved for special occasions. “Maybe you’d better turn that oven down to low for a while.”

    He proceeded between long sips to reveal Brad’s news, the wedding plans first and then, fumbling the words, the fact that it would be a homosexual union.

    Nettie sat across from Mik, leaning in with her arms on the kitchen table. She seemed to absorb all the information as easily as if he had told her Brad had a dentist appointment or was planning a trip around the world.

    “I’m not that surprised,” she said, “I’ve always wondered about Brad.”

    “But he’s such a hunk, as you women say.”

    Nettie patted the back of Mik’s hand. “What planet do you live on? They always are!” She rose to check the casserole. “Maybe you should fix me one of your silver bullets, after all.”

    He made a double batch with fresh ice and a little extra vermouth, the way she liked it, and returned to the table with the two full glasses. “But that’s not all. Here’s the kicker . . . where it becomes a dilemma for you and me. He wants us to witness the ceremony at city hall. Then he wants us to have dinner with the two of them holding hands and making dove eyes, and see them off on the honeymoon!”

    “That is so nice of him to want us there. What’s your dilemma? Brad has always had a lot of respect for you. It’s wonderful he has enough confidence to ask for your support now.”

    “That’s it? You’re not even mildly disturbed, much less appalled or horrified? We are talking about being official guests at and party to a gay wedding . . . with Brad as the beautiful bride!”

    “I’ve never heard you talk like this before. Since when are you Mr. Homophobe?”

    “Well, this is someone we know!” Mik’s guts battled with his brain. “Those people can do what they want behind closed doors, no matter how repulsive that may be. At least we were not involved in it—until now. And, I do not like the public displays or acceptance of it . . . it’s not natural.”

    “My God, would you listen to yourself? You’ve read enough to know it is inborn. It’s in his genes, in his blood. It’s not a matter of choice. It is natural. Maybe not for us, but for them it is.”
    “I never bought that. Not 100 percent. Anyway, why do they have to get married? It shouldn’t even be allowed. Marriage has always meant a man and a woman.”

    “Listen, dear,” she said, “I am happy and proud to live in one of the five or six places in this country where homosexual marriage is sanctioned and legal.”  The glass shook in her hand, spilling out a few drops. “Where is your cherished notion of equality without that?”

    “The constitution doesn’t say anything about gay marriage.” He sipped slowly, feeling the booze ease his taut nerves. He knew his statement was hollow and incoherent and felt relieved when Nettie chose not to challenge it.

    “Brad is practically your best friend ever. How can you condemn him for this? You should be happy he is out of the closet and free to be himself.”

    “I’m not condemning him. I just do not understand how he can choose that kind of relationship. God, I cannot stand to think about it.”

    “I don’t really understand either, but sex is such a powerful, pervading drive. Is it any wonder that differences in preference or orientation exist? At any rate, it’s not for us to approve or not.”

    Mik shook his head but offered no response. Nettie continued.

    “Think of how many have lived in a hell of heterosexual relationships when their natural inclination was homosexual. Think of Brad and Julie. They were miserable together. Why should gays and lesbians have to choose that kind of life to satisfy us? Why should they have to live in clandestine affairs or in solitude?”

    “Well, I’d rather they just shut up about it then.” Mik had read all the opinions on homosexual tendencies and the rights of all Americans, all humans, to enjoy the benefits of a marriage relationship. He had no formal religious beliefs on which to base his objections as many others did, citing obscure biblical passages. He just did not like the idea. “I don’t want them flaunting their lifestyle at me. I don’t need to see any more Gay Pride parades! God, I suppose Brad and his new husband could be the frigging king and queen in the next one.”

    The oven beeped and Nettie rose to extract their dinner. “Set the table for me, honey, while I fix a salad and get this casserole ready to serve. And relax, for heaven’s sake. You’re all flushed.”

    Their dinner conversation turned to the recent hurricanes in Florida and snippets of local news that Nettie had caught on television earlier in the day when she wasn’t working on her poetry collection. Then it was quiet, so quiet that Mik could hear Nettie’s breathing and the tic-toc of the pendulum clock in the hall, each of them reluctant to continue with the subject that remained fixed in both of their minds.

    Nettie smiled and broke the silence. “What should we get them for a wedding gift?”

    “Jeez. I have no clue what to give a couple of gays.”

    “Don’t think of it in that context.”

    “How can you not?”

    Mik knew he could never see Brad with the same eyes again. Would they ever again be able to shake hands or bear hug as they were accustomed to do? He watched Nettie’s delicate hand holding her dinner fork, absently playing with the food on her plate. He loved her fine hands, her rounded arms, shoulders and neck. He loved the touch of her velvet skin He loved her delicate face, framed in short-cropped hair that accentuated her femininity and appeal. He loved her shining eyes and her soft lips. The soft curves and the round fullness in her knit cotton blouse urged him to reach out, to feel her close to him. How could Brad disdain such feminine charms for the arms of a man?

    Shadows flickered briefly across Nettie’s serious, thoughtful face—shadows of candlelight from the four tapers she had lighted to enhance their dinner and shadows of doubt and concern. “What did you say to him?” she asked. Her voice was controlled and quiet. “Did you congratulate him, tell him you couldn’t wait to meet his fiancé?”

    Mik grunted and thought, Are you kidding?

    He said, “I told him we had travel plans for that week. We’d have to see if they could be changed.”

    “So you lied, and you are actually thinking of abandoning him.”

    “What else could I do? God, he knocked me over with this whole idea.”

    “Isn’t he the same Brad you have loved dearly for the past three years?”

    “The same Brad?” Mik exploded. “Hell no! He’s about to become someone’s blushing bride for God’s sake. A wrestler’s bride! Mrs., uh  . . . Mrs. Norman Kramer.” His last words trailed off. “He will never be Brad Stoner again to me . . . .”

    Nettie stared at her husband. “How sad,” she whispered and pushed back her chair. She rose and moved deliberately around the table to Mik’s side. “Get up,” she said, and he obeyed. She looked up into his confused face and ran her smooth fingers up his arms. She grasped him tightly like an unruly child.

    “Tomorrow you will tell him that we will be honored and delighted to stand by him at his wedding. Tomorrow you will ask if he can bring Norman to our house for dinner next week so we can meet him and get to know him a little before the wedding. Tomorrow you will tell him that we will continue to stand by them while other friends and acquaintances abandon them and shun them, for surely that will happen. Brad knows that. Our state recognizes the legality and value of their relationship, but most of the people he knows won’t accept them any more. They will be talked about and treated like some kind of dirty joke.”

    She released her grip. “And you’d better hope he still accepts you.”

    She paused. “I wonder if they plan on having a family.”

    Nettie’s touch and clear instructions had calmed him, but Mik’s longstanding and deeply rooted sentiments persisted. “They’re two men, Nettie. They can’t have kids. If they could, how would that child feel, having a couple of gays for parents?”

    “I know two lesbian couples from the tennis club,” she said and stood back with folded arms. “One has kids.”

    “Two more couples! Christ, it’s getting epidemic. You never mentioned them before.”

     “It never came up. Anyway, they are both loving couples and seem quite normal—if there is such a thing—in every other way. One couple—Cindy and Mary—have adopted two kids. One boy and one girl. They are so proud of them. They talk about them all the time, just like other parents. They dress the kids well. They love them. They have the same concerns and worries and aspirations as any other parent . . . and then some.”

    “But the kids can’t feel good about it,” he said over his shoulder as he carried the dishes to the dishwasher.

    Nettie followed and turned him to face her. “You’re transferring your own feelings to them. I’ve met them. The kids are like any others I know except they know they have two moms. Makes them feel special. They accept it without question.”

    “But they’ll be influenced to think a homosexual relationship is normal.”

    “All I know is that those kids are some of the best adjusted and best behaved I’ve ever met, the most knowledgeable for their age, the most aware. The moms have told me that they do not want to predispose the children to homosexuality or heterosexuality. Quite the opposite. They know how precious a thing that freedom of choice is.”

    Now she was flushed. “Damn it, don’t you know that after their own struggles with sexual preference, they don’t want the kids to face that trauma.  Or the social stigma that homosexuality carries. That will be with us for years to come. Maybe forever. Don’t you see, they just want the kids to be very aware . . . to help them make their own choices . . . and to understand the consequences.”

    Nettie held Mik’s face in her two hands. “This country needs to do something to remove that stigma and recognize the value of these people and their relationships like any others. They should not be second class citizens any longer.” Her voice rose as emotions flooded her words. Then, looking at Mik’s pinched lips, she laughed. Her grip on his face had tightened, making him look like the grill of an Edsel. “Didn’t mean to get on a rant,” she said and dropped her hands.

    Mik looked at her with raised brows.

    She kissed his bewildered face on the cheek and said, “Sorry.”

    Mik pulled her close and folded her in his arms. Thus they stood for several moments in quiet, domestic embrace, holding on to themselves, holding on to each other.

    “I love you.”

    “I love you too.”

End

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com     February, 2014

Minor Differences: A Love Story

ProetryPlace Blog 42

Minor Differences, A Love Story

Part One of Two

    “Ohhh. Are you leaving me now?” Her husky whisper was still heavy with sleep. His hands felt cold on her warm bare shoulders. They carried the subtle scent of musk, earthy and animal.

    “It’s almost eight. I don’t want to be late.” He had already showered, shaved and dressed for work and caught five minutes of the Weather Channel and a glimpse of Matt Lauer in some secret spot on the globe before returning to the bedroom to waken her.

    Her hand caught his, pulling him to her. “I’m all dressed and ready to go,” he said, and bent to plant a platonic peck on her cheek. He felt her indolent warmth rise to meet him. She turned toward him to receive his lips on hers and reached up to pull his shampooed head down to her searching mouth.

    “Baby, I’ve got to go . . . !”

    Later, he had considered calling in sick and spending the entire morning in bed. But, he was not practiced at deceit, and he deferred to duties beyond his connubial obligations. Quickly redressing in the semi-darkness of the shaded room, he prepared to leave without further contact or goodbyes. She did not lift her face from the pillowed comfort of puffy down to acknowledge or resist his departure except to utter a satisfied, throaty, “Bye now, Mik.”

    “Bye Nettie.” He grabbed the car keys from the dresser and willed himself to leave the room.

    He had missed the heaviest of the morning traffic. He parked in a far corner of the office lot, glanced at his watch and quickly walked toward the double glass entry doors of Universal Engineering, reluctantly shifting his thoughts from his wife to the tasks and problems that would confront him during the next eight to ten hours.

    Inside, the receptionist absently handed him two pink message slips. Her bottle-black hair hung loosely, covering half of her face as she spoke quietly and confidentially into the telephone. She did not look up or bother to address him by name. He hadn’t learned her name either. He called her Gina—of the species Lollobrigida. She welcomed visiting strangers warmly but except for the top brass and a few young studs like Brad, she could not waste any of her limited attention span on most of the common staff. Mik’s own preference was for brains over boobs, but he doubted that any man could help but appreciate her up-front assets.

    He glanced at the pink sheets. Good, the one o’clock meeting is cancelled. No reason given. And Brad is back and wants to talk. He will be waiting in my office.

    He’d hired Brad Stoner three years ago to help catch up with some of the minor engineering drawings that kept piling up. Stoner lacked full academic credentials, but he was a quick study. Where he lacked pure intellect, his determination, study and hard work more than compensated. Mik had given Brad personal attention and mentoring to develop his raw potential and had alerted top management to Brad’s achievements. And he had come to rely on Brad, gradually delegating more complex and difficult problems to him.

    “Hey old man,” Brad greeted him, “you’re smiling, and you’re late. Catch an early nooner?”

    Sometimes Brad is a little too perceptive, he thought. He dropped his attaché case on his desk and reached out to shake Brad’s hand and throw an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get some coffee, my friend.”

    Mik had eventually come to regard Brad like the younger brother he never had, and Brad reciprocated with warm respect. Yet something remote and undefined limited their friendly intimacy. Maybe it was the working relationship. Maybe it was the age difference or generation gap. Whatever, it was always there, like a haunting fragrance, perceptible but unidentified.

    The office crew had finished with coffee and break-room gossip an hour ago. The dark dregs from the Pyrex pot were strong and bitter. “No time to make fresh, this will have to do,” Mik said. “Do you want some of the swill? You seem busting with news. How was your trip?”

    “It’ll wait till we get back to your office,” Brad said. Then, unable to resist his constant exuberance, he whispered, “I’m getting married again, Mik.”

    Stoner had been married two years ago for exactly eight months. Julie, his bride, a beautiful, slim blond, was a perfect complement to her tall, broad-shouldered, raven-haired husband. They cohabited for a year, but Brad had been reluctant to set the wedding date. Finally they eloped for a solitary but elaborately staged wedding and honeymoon in Hawaii.

    Mik and Nettie were invited to the newlyweds’ apartment only once, a few months after the wedding. They sat together on a stiffly upholstered settee to view photos of the happy couple in tux and short white wedding dress holding hands and embracing under a canopy of orchids, or tanned and athletic in shorts and tees with a grotto waterfall splashing behind them, or in a mock pose with Brad rescuing Julie from the rim of a steaming volcano.

    They had leafed through the expensive, professional album and given up the appropriate responses, a duet of “ohs” and “ahs” and “beautifuls,” but each had felt ill-at-ease with the newly-weds, sensing something oddly amiss in the elaborate picture show and something lacking or fictitious in their current behavior.

    On their drive home, Nettie was the first to remark, “God, I felt like I was at a bad Neil Simon play. Like they were pretending . . . posing all the time. They acted so un-newly-married, didn’t you think? Maybe it was just the feeling I got from those cold furnishings—they looked like samples from that ultra-modern furniture showroom at the mall.”

    “That furniture expresses them perfectly. Smart, stylish and expensive. But yeah, they were so, uh, so perfunctory . . . not at all intimate.” Mik dropped his hand on Nettie’s thigh. “Not even a pat on the ass. If you treated me like that, I’d think you were hinting at divorce.”

    Mik and Nettie’s furnishings comprised an informal and varied collection of mostly early-American pieces, overstuffed contemporary and inherited or purchased antiques of any era or origination. The eclectic collection had grown sporadically over the years, and somehow, it all fit together, a comfortable mélange they both approved.

    When Mik proposed marriage, Nettie had said, “We’re just too different.”

    Mik replied, “It’ll keep life interesting, you’ll see.”

    Over the years, he had repeated this assertion, always in response to her “We are so different,” or “We don’t agree on anything.” There was some truth in both of their statements. Differences abounded in their tastes in food, music and literature that years of marriage did not alter. Nettie was strictly meat and potatoes. Mik went for extensive smorgasbords or exotic international cuisine. He detested the hip-hop and rap that turned her on, as much as she disliked the classics or the Coltrane that he loved. They disagreed on points of religion, although neither of them practiced one formally or attended any church. They rarely disagreed on politics, but neither was a strong member of any party. Minor differences.

    Once, in their fifth year of marriage, while their furnishings were more meager but less worn than now, she had said to him one evening, out of the blue, “Maybe we should get a separation.”

    The notion was so remote to Mik, it was as if she had spoken a foreign language. The words just did not register. “What?” was all he could manage to respond.

    “Nothing. Go back to your reading.” And she let the statement recede from their consciousness, like a stone skipping away over quiet water.

    In fact, their bond was strong and genuine. Their basic perceptions and values were rarely dissimilar. Motherhood and Apple Pie. Honesty and Integrity, Home and Family and God bless the USA. Both were predisposed to kindness and consideration, not only for each other but for those less fortunate. Both were imbued with a need to care and to share, yet either could tear out your throat or your heart with spiteful slams if aroused in the heat of argument.

    Nettie’s killer instinct was more highly developed—she had majored in psychology with a minor in American Lit. She was more likely to hurl the hurtful phrase, then rush back like Florence Nightingale to repair the wounds with skilled understanding and gentle compassion. Careful and deliberate, Mik eschewed pernicious utterances until he flew over the edge, out of control. Only then did he select the most viscous and cutting articulations of attack. With that release, he withdrew for hours or days of brooding, resentment, and remorse.

    Each knew the others soft spots well. They both had learned to avoid them unless willing to suffer the anguish of the retribution that was almost sure to follow. Each anticipated the other’s thoughts or reactions, whether agreeable or not. Though as comfortable together now as their dissimilar and well-used furniture, each still thought the other to be the most interesting person on the planet. And they were good in bed together.

    Neither of them had been surprised when Brad announced that Julie had moved in with another man and was suing for divorce based on irreconcilable differences. Nor did it seem odd that Brad seemed hardly perplexed. He continued his private life as he had before and during the marriage—heavily involved in spectator and participation sports, body training four times a week at Singleton’s Spa and pick-up basketball games at the Y. It seemed quite in character—as if Brad had selected a mate much as he might have impulsively purchased a stylish new suit or a sporty new car, then quickly tired of it to the point of neglect and eventual abandonment. But they continued to wonder about the true nature of those irreconcilable differences.

    Walking back to Mik’s office, Brad attracted the usual flirtations from the female staff, single and married, young and old. They appreciated his considerate and deferential good manners but especially his smashing good looks. Need a favor from one of them? Have Brad Stoner ask her for it. He plied them with a wink and a smile, a quick personal inquiry or a bad, bad joke. Stoner was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he did have a unique shine

    Mik shut the office door. His surprise at Brad’s whispered announcement in the break room had abated somewhat, like the cooling of the hot, bitter coffee. Still, he was eager to know more. “Okay, let’s hear about it,” he said.

    “Well, the wedding date is two weeks from today—a civil ceremony. We want you and Nettie to be our witnesses. No one else is coming.”

    “Wow, that was fast!” He refrained from asking, “Is she pregnant?” or “Are you sure this time?” He said, “I’m not sure what’s on our calendar two weeks from now, but it’s probably not anything we can’t change. Nettie will be very happy for you. So am I.”

    Mik sat on the edge of his desk, eying the telephone. He itched to call home, to tell Nettie. He thought how he might phrase the surprise announcement and hoped she would not still be in the shower. He realized he still lacked some essential information to pass on.

    “So, Brad, who is this lucky girl that will claim you as her prize? You haven’t mentioned seeing anyone regularly . . . much less a new love life . . . or that you’ve been thinking of a new wife.”

    Brad blinked studiously and cleared his throat. Mik had never known his friend to lack confidence in any situation. Now he watched Brad Stoner shift his gaze nervously from the office window to meet his own eyes and back again.

    “We’ve kept it very quiet,” Brad said, “and it won’t be a new wife for me, it will be a new husband.”

    Mik’s mouth twisted as if he’d just ingested something of doubtful origin. He thought, what the hell are you talking about, man?

    He said, “A new husband? I don’t get it, Brad.”

    Brad smiled but offered little in the way of explanation. “You may have seen him sometime. He’s the wrestler—The Unholy Terror. Also known as Norman Kramer.”

    “But, he’s a man!” Mik blinked stupidly.

    “You got it, my friend.”

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com     February, 2014

Do Not Mess With Mama Nature

ProetryPlace Blog 41

    The manager of Carrollton’s Cultural Arts Center waited patiently and politely while I finished reading a short historical fiction piece Tuesday morning at the Carrollton Creative Writers Club meeting. Then she announced, “Y’all go home. We are closing up. It’s supposed to get bad.”

    For the past hour we had all been eyeing the snowfall outside the windows, and, mindful of the weather forecasts we had heard for the past several days, willingly and quickly broke up our meeting well before the scheduled Noon adjournment. Not more than half an inch of the cold, white stuff had accumulated, but I encountered a few slippery patches on my short drive home. A few numbskull drivers drove recklessly, unmindful of the hazards, and I was happy to reach home when I did.

    Just after Noon, my daughter, a kindergarten teacher in the city schools, called to warn me to stay off the roads. The administration had finally released the teachers to go home and she had slipped and slid half a mile to get onto “the bypass” thoroughfare. An hour later she texted that she was finally home, a 15-minute drive normally.

    By then, nothing except weather was being aired by the network stations in Atlanta. Even the soaps were preempted, so we began to realize something serious might be developing. Snow continued falling as the afternoon wore on, and the horror of traffic on Atlanta’s roads began to unfold like a time-lapse photo sequence. Television cameras showed the traffic creeping, then crawling then stopping. Reports of accidents mounted into the hundreds, eventually reaching about 1000.

    By nightfall the unbelievable picture had fully developed. Nothing moved on the interstates.  A total icy gridlock trapped hundreds of thousands of unhappy and unfortunate travelers, truckers and commuters in their vehicles.

    Carrollton received the forecast accumulation of up to two inches of snow. Atlanta had been forecast to receive less, but actually measured almost three inches by the end of the day. Still not what could be considered a great or even worrisome accumulation or near other snow amounts that had fallen on the city. Only three years ago, in January 2011, Atlanta roads were under four to six inches of snow. The city’s record snowfall of 11.2 inches was set 74 years ago in 1940 when there were no interstate highways to worry about.

    The metro population then was about 300,000. Today, the Metro Atlanta population comprises 5 to 6 million residents. No one in that area would think of working within walking distance of home, so every working day several hundreds of thousands of commuters clog the city’s highways as they drive to opposite ends of the metropolis. Traffic in Atlanta is never pretty. The roads are never near vacant, even outside the times of the major commutes.

    The most remarkable southern snowfall in my memory (we have lived in Georgia only since 1983) occurred during the three-day “Storm of the Century” in March, 1993. That storm blanketed the entire southeastern U.S., especially Georgia, Alabama, North Carolina and Tennessee. It closed all roadways in the area for days. Some of the ice storms we have encountered had even more drastic effects on us.

    On early Tuesday afternoon, those hundreds of thousands, perhaps over a million, drivers hit the  interstates and turned the snowy road surface into a skating rink. No traction. No movement. No hope. Many abandoned their vehicles on and off the roadways and took off on foot to seek warmth, food, shelter or just a place to pee. School children were trapped on immobile school buses. A baby was born in an automobile unable to reach the hospital while nearby cars spun their wheels in a futile effort to move and with no place to go.

    Temperatures remained between about 3 to 30 degrees for the next two days, preventing any significant thawing except in exceptionally sunny spots. My son, a professional driver, was stuck north of Atlanta, unable to reach home for two days. Similarly, my daughter and granddaughter remained at their workplaces for two days before attempting to reach home.

    I ventured out in Carrollton on Thursday and found several icy patches still on the roads. The nearby strip mall was nearly deserted with only Home Depot and the Kroger supermarket open for business. The Times Georgian and the U.S. Mail (three days’ worth) were finally delivered on Friday, and Friday night every restaurant in town was deluged with hungry customers suffering severely with cabin fever.

    All’s well that ends well, and the situation might have been even much worse. The city of Carrollton, like most cities in Georgia, has no means to deal with snow and ice except to urge its citizens to pray for any early thaw. Atlanta, however, does have plows and sand trucks and supplies of de-icing chemicals. Apparently, none of these were deployed this past week. By the time anyone thought to do anything, it was too late. Those trucks and plows sat idly with no way to access the streets that were already bumper to bumper with stalled vehicles.

    For two days after the “storm,” city and state officials provided their own snow jobs for hours at a time on network TV. Excuses piled upon excuses while they tossed the snowball from one to another.

    Could the traffic fiasco in and around Atlanta have been prevented? I certainly hope so and that someone in charge may have learned from the experience. Still, I refrain from passing judgment. Let us just say that it was a case of humankind versus nature and nature always wins.

~

    Now the nation’s attention has turned to the weather in East Rutherford, NJ, where Super Bowl XLVIII between the Denver Broncos (best offense) and the Seattle Seahawks (best defense) is scheduled to commence at 6:30 PM EST. Earlier worries about icy precipitation seem to have evaporated. However, the playing field at Met Life Stadium is frozen hard as concrete, so Mother Nature may still have a say in the outcome of this meeting of titans.

    I have to hope for a Denver win. I would like to wish Peyton Manning this ultimate success in his comeback from injuries. Also, my daughter, who has been shoveling snow in Denver for the past two days, would not forgive me if I didn’t.

Richard Allen Anderson, 2/2/14     Http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com