Canada Geese honked overhead, and I stopped to watch them as they flew by in perfect formation. I always stopped to look as they flew, or grazed in a field, or strolled with their goslings. Their existence seemed so orderly, so sensible—and most important of all, they each took a single mate for life.
My own life had come apart more than once, which likely explains my fascination with the geese. Twice I married the wrong girl. I blame myself for this, of course. The mismatch in each case should have been obvious, but the beauty of both women, each a distillation of the purest physical femininity, blinded me. I dare say, this often happens to those unsung creatures—American men. But I’m rich through inheritance and should have realized I might easily be married for my money. I knew I lacked charm, though, if I may say so, I wasn’t all that bad looking.
My first wife, Ruth Ann, was a writer of sorts. I made her comfortable and provided what she needed for her writing, and she no longer had to fish for grants. She had a pleasant study overlooking the woods and the very best IBM Selectric typewriter. When a computer became an essential tool, I bought her a state-of–the art model. She was svelte, willowy and desirable, and when she wasn’t writing, or sleeping beside me, she was making wine lists for her friends, or trading recipes, or advising couples about weddings.
I truly loved her and admired her versatility. But one day, shortly after our seventh wedding anniversary, she announced she was leaving me. One of her old flames had shown up at a wine shop where she happened to be browsing. He was a writer himself and, as they say, hungering for experience. And so, off they went together. After the divorce, our two children visited me each week, and I agreed to pay for their college education.
A year later, not having learned my lesson, I married again. I met my second wife, Melissa—blond, beautiful, and poised—at my dining club where she was a regular. Without realizing it, I had done the chic thing—I had joined a club and hardly ever gone there. Thus, when I did show up in my blazer and bow tie, usually with a business partner, the other members were surprised, and I got attention. Here I should mention that I wasn’t content to live on the returns from my inheritance. I had invested in two local automobile dealerships, a beer distributorship, and a luxury apartment complex. I was well known in the local business world.
Anyway, Melissa and I got married—much too soon—and settled in my same old homestead. She was skilled in the art of lovemaking, and having her beside me provided some passionate moments. But properly dressed in the daytime, we hardly ever spoke of anything of importance, beyond what I should buy next. After five years and one child, Melissa declared us incompatible, took our child, and went to live in our second home in the mountains—she later got it in the divorce settlement. I agreed to pay for our child’s college education. I was doing my part in populating the educated elite.
After my second divorce, I decided I was simply out of step with the wedded world. I had always thought of myself as a pretty good guy. I was fair in my business dealings, contributed money and time to the local mission, and donated to the usual charities. Despite my two divorces, I had thoughts of running for mayor. But as for women—I was now determined to avoid them. Oh—I must admit, I did consider sneaking out of town to some high-class whorehouse, or making a discreet call to one of those escort services. They were the simplest and cheapest ways to satisfy the needs of a still-vigorous male. Yet they were seedy, however discreet I might be. After all, I would know what I was doing—even if the world didn’t.
In any event, there I was, in my forties, in good health, with my waistline still firm and narrow. My businesses were all doing well. I drove a BMW for workaday missions and a vintage Corvette for fun. My only concerns about women were the two monthly checks I sent to Ruth Ann and Melissa. Then I got that letter from the Sheriff summoning me to Jury Duty. As always, I was willing to serve.
I was sitting in the Jury Room, when the Clerk of the Jurors announced that a trial was about to begin. All the prospective jurors filed out of the room, and down the hall, and into the Superior Court room. I was seated as Juror Six—Juror Seven was an attractive, but not beautiful nurse. She was talkative in a very pleasant Southern way, and we seemed to hit it off, though at first, I wasn’t paying her much attention.
Anyway, the defendant in the court case was an immigrant hero, who had a wife, a mistress, and a part-time girlfriend, and decided to enjoy sexual freedom at the expense of his nine-year-old daughter. As the trial dragged on, we heard all the awful evidence establishing the nature of the crime and the identity of the criminal. And needing a pleasant interlude, the nurse, Effie Jamison, and I began having lunch together. After our jury’s verdict was read and the defendant put in handcuffs, Effie and I agreed to get together sometime, and we dated and eventually married. And as amazing as it seems, our marriage lasted, and lasted.
Now here is a curious thing about our union. I have always preferred bow ties, a taste I inherited from my father—neither he nor I ever wore the phony clip-on kind. But I often had trouble getting them neatly tied, and when I did, my patience would desert me. On the other hand, Effie could tie a bow tie to perfection. She always got the tie straight and the ends exactly even. And so, before I went to my office, and whenever we went to a banquet, or to a friend’s wedding, or later to a friend’s funeral, Effie would always tie my tie just right. Then she would gaze at me with her gentle eyes and kiss me on the cheek, and we would embrace. And each time she tied my tie, our love was somehow renewed. I think our long romance was sustained by those lovely moments—and my bow tie.
My own life had come apart more than once, which likely explains my fascination with the geese. Twice I married the wrong girl. I blame myself for this, of course. The mismatch in each case should have been obvious, but the beauty of both women, each a distillation of the purest physical femininity, blinded me. I dare say, this often happens to those unsung creatures—American men. But I’m rich through inheritance and should have realized I might easily be married for my money. I knew I lacked charm, though, if I may say so, I wasn’t all that bad looking.
My first wife, Ruth Ann, was a writer of sorts. I made her comfortable and provided what she needed for her writing, and she no longer had to fish for grants. She had a pleasant study overlooking the woods and the very best IBM Selectric typewriter. When a computer became an essential tool, I bought her a state-of–the art model. She was svelte, willowy and desirable, and when she wasn’t writing, or sleeping beside me, she was making wine lists for her friends, or trading recipes, or advising couples about weddings.
I truly loved her and admired her versatility. But one day, shortly after our seventh wedding anniversary, she announced she was leaving me. One of her old flames had shown up at a wine shop where she happened to be browsing. He was a writer himself and, as they say, hungering for experience. And so, off they went together. After the divorce, our two children visited me each week, and I agreed to pay for their college education.
A year later, not having learned my lesson, I married again. I met my second wife, Melissa—blond, beautiful, and poised—at my dining club where she was a regular. Without realizing it, I had done the chic thing—I had joined a club and hardly ever gone there. Thus, when I did show up in my blazer and bow tie, usually with a business partner, the other members were surprised, and I got attention. Here I should mention that I wasn’t content to live on the returns from my inheritance. I had invested in two local automobile dealerships, a beer distributorship, and a luxury apartment complex. I was well known in the local business world.
Anyway, Melissa and I got married—much too soon—and settled in my same old homestead. She was skilled in the art of lovemaking, and having her beside me provided some passionate moments. But properly dressed in the daytime, we hardly ever spoke of anything of importance, beyond what I should buy next. After five years and one child, Melissa declared us incompatible, took our child, and went to live in our second home in the mountains—she later got it in the divorce settlement. I agreed to pay for our child’s college education. I was doing my part in populating the educated elite.
After my second divorce, I decided I was simply out of step with the wedded world. I had always thought of myself as a pretty good guy. I was fair in my business dealings, contributed money and time to the local mission, and donated to the usual charities. Despite my two divorces, I had thoughts of running for mayor. But as for women—I was now determined to avoid them. Oh—I must admit, I did consider sneaking out of town to some high-class whorehouse, or making a discreet call to one of those escort services. They were the simplest and cheapest ways to satisfy the needs of a still-vigorous male. Yet they were seedy, however discreet I might be. After all, I would know what I was doing—even if the world didn’t.
In any event, there I was, in my forties, in good health, with my waistline still firm and narrow. My businesses were all doing well. I drove a BMW for workaday missions and a vintage Corvette for fun. My only concerns about women were the two monthly checks I sent to Ruth Ann and Melissa. Then I got that letter from the Sheriff summoning me to Jury Duty. As always, I was willing to serve.
I was sitting in the Jury Room, when the Clerk of the Jurors announced that a trial was about to begin. All the prospective jurors filed out of the room, and down the hall, and into the Superior Court room. I was seated as Juror Six—Juror Seven was an attractive, but not beautiful nurse. She was talkative in a very pleasant Southern way, and we seemed to hit it off, though at first, I wasn’t paying her much attention.
Anyway, the defendant in the court case was an immigrant hero, who had a wife, a mistress, and a part-time girlfriend, and decided to enjoy sexual freedom at the expense of his nine-year-old daughter. As the trial dragged on, we heard all the awful evidence establishing the nature of the crime and the identity of the criminal. And needing a pleasant interlude, the nurse, Effie Jamison, and I began having lunch together. After our jury’s verdict was read and the defendant put in handcuffs, Effie and I agreed to get together sometime, and we dated and eventually married. And as amazing as it seems, our marriage lasted, and lasted.
Now here is a curious thing about our union. I have always preferred bow ties, a taste I inherited from my father—neither he nor I ever wore the phony clip-on kind. But I often had trouble getting them neatly tied, and when I did, my patience would desert me. On the other hand, Effie could tie a bow tie to perfection. She always got the tie straight and the ends exactly even. And so, before I went to my office, and whenever we went to a banquet, or to a friend’s wedding, or later to a friend’s funeral, Effie would always tie my tie just right. Then she would gaze at me with her gentle eyes and kiss me on the cheek, and we would embrace. And each time she tied my tie, our love was somehow renewed. I think our long romance was sustained by those lovely moments—and my bow tie.
