On a whim, I called up my former wife Amy yesterday, Thursday, October 24, 2019, to invite her to dinner. She accepted. What follows is my report on our proceedings together. There are also email responses from friends I sent the sad tale to, and something from my daughter Virginia, which has almost no bearing on this story but I felt like putting it in anyway, and then Amy's crushing, final email reply that I received today.
I cleaned up the joint in preparation for Amy’s visit this evening. Even flushed the toilet. Got the couch turned around so we could sit on it to watch movies . . .
When she drove up to my patio door at 4:15 this afternoon I was a little surprised -- I thought she said 5. I greeted her warmly. She smelled heavenly. I pressed her to me; her skin was soft and yielding. I kissed her on the lips. She didn’t resist, so I tried for another; this time she coyly turned her head, and so I nuzzled her neck instead. I completely lost my head and blurted out:
“I’ve missed you so much . . . “
So much for my plan to play it cool as a cucumber. Restraint was not to be my major theme this evening.
Ghostbusters Two was on cable when she arrived; I asked her if she wanted to go out to eat right away or sit and watch the movie a while. As I hoped, she opted for watching the movie. She started to sit in the big upholstered chair, but I swooped down on her and with an amorous waggle of my eyebrows I quoted to her that famous line of Groucho Marx to Margaret Dumont:
“Ah, Mrs. Rittenhouse, won’t you lie down?” while pointing at the couch. She laughed softly, accepting my invitation.
I put my arm around her shoulder. I massaged her neck. I drew her to me for a kiss. Then she asked, just like Margaret Dumont, “What are your intentions, Timmy?”
“I’ve missed you” I reiterated, “and I want to visit with you and take you out to dinner because I have missed your company. And I want to cook for you -- that would make me really happy.”
She floored me with her response.
“What am I supposed to get out of all this?” she asked.
Completely flummoxed, I held her hands in mine and stared at her like a beached carp.
“What . . . what do you mean?” I finally stammered.
“All this affection and taking me out to eat -- how do I benefit from any of it?” she helpfully explained.
I could only gabble at her like a man with his mouth full of peanut butter. A free meal? A makeout session on the couch like the good old days? The offer to cook for her whenever she liked? These meant nothing to her?
I saw I was on the slippery slope to abject bondage to her every whim, and I hadn’t the willpower to apply the brakes.
“I’m very vulnerable when I’m with you” was what I finally said.
“I know” she replied. And then she looked deep into my wildly gyrating eyes and placed my hand on her thigh. Then placed her hand over my hand. Oh, she is good. She makes Mata Hari look like Phyllis Diller.
Fortunately, the movie took an interesting turn at that moment -- so we resumed breathing and watched Dr. Venkman’s shenanigans for a while. Would he and Sigourney Weaver ever reconcile? Would Amy and I ever reconcile?
Barbarian that I am, I began to press myself on her, little by little. She didn’t resist -- but she didn’t respond, either. This was not the passionate Amy of old. Her smile was still beatific. Her breath was honeyed myrrh. Her silken hair ran through my fingers like warm, fine-grained sand. But she did not, would not, or could not, return my open and frank passion. So I backed off.
During a commercial break for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, she divulged to me the reason for her slow response to my confession of unbridled passion. Today, this very day, she had felt inspired to move to Seattle as soon as she possibly could. She was making arrangements to sell her car and get an advance on her salary (she works for Amazon.com in Draper as something called a trust facilitator -- she gave me the job description but I’m still as vague about it as before.) And so, while happy to see me once again, she needed to know how becoming friends, or more than friends, could help her in her ‘calling’ to go to Seattle. She didn’t ask me if I would go with her. We both knew that was not part of the plan.
At this point I excused myself to use the bathroom, where I pounded my forehead against the medicine cabinet mirror until some micro-fractures appeared (in the mirror, not my forehead.)
I came out, resigned to accepting the craziness and see where it would take the two of us.
The movie was over. We went to Good Thyme Eatery down on Center Street here in Provo. Amy had the kale caesar salad, strawberry balsamic beets and arugula, a bowl of chicken pumpkin curry, and a large Nutella cookie. She took a cup of raspberry/ginger tea. She also got a big bowl of rocky road chopped ice cream. They pour cream and sugar onto a surface that instantly freezes the cream, then use a pair of Ginzu knives to chop it up with additional ingredients like at Beni Hana -- except it’s frozen, not fried. I had no appetite, so ordered a small bowl of squash soup and a saucer of mashed potatoes with goat cheese.
We spoke of me taking her to see the Downton Abbey movie, and then cooking her a nice dinner at my place tomorrow. At first she was enthusiastic, but then her ears started to leak.
Her ears start to leak, she explained to me back in her car while she cleaned them out with a dozen cotton swabs, whenever she is exposed to insincere flattery. Which, she said, is what I had been giving her all night.
“But I was just trying to be transparent with you, complimenting you, telling you what I think and how I feel about you” I said desperately, seeing our movie and dinner slipping inexorably away.
“You’ll have to change that” she said as we drove up to my place.
“Care to come in for a nightcap?” I weakly asked, hoping against hope that she would want to come in and talk the night away.
“I’ve got to do laundry tonight and then do initiatory work at the temple before going to work tomorrow” she said. How could I cajole her out of that without appearing to be a cad?
“May I have a kiss goodnight?” I meekly asked.
“No you may not -- my ears will really start gushing then” she said primly.
“When can I see you again?” I said, much against my will -- this whole thing was turning into a cliched adolescent angst-fest.
She scribbled on an index card from her purse, then handed it to me.
“I want you to watch a Jordan Peterson seminar on YouTube and listen to several Dr. Les Carter podcasts about honest communication first. Once you’ve done that call me and I’ll think about letting you take me out again” she said.
That, my friends, should have been the straw that broke the ungulate’s back. Striking a manly pose, I should have sternly told her that I would never knuckle under to any kind of ultimatum just for the pleasure of her company. We would be equals, or nothing.
But instead I replied mildly that I would give it a whirl and let her know when I had finished. Maybe by Saturday, and then I could take her to see Downton Abbey . . . ?
She gave me a soft glance and a brush of her hand across my cheek. But answer was there none. I could smell aloes on her. And now I write this all down -- perhaps as my last will and testament, for, if I’m not mistaken, I have just been drained of my heart’s sap and most of my backbone is now jellied eel. I can’t be long for this world . . .
Rob Reed’s email response:
This kept my attention, and I have no new thoughts you haven't already had.
Her question of what she was going to get out of it would have ended it for me. Her question of your intentions probably would have brought out the truth from me -- but that would have ended it for her. Why she even bothered to come over I don't understand, if she was planning to go to Seattle. She got all smelly for you just to prove to herself that she still has power over you, and then to prove her superiority by telling you to listen to some rich self-help person about honest communication -- all that's kinda disgusting to me. You're both smart people, and can hold your own in most any conversation, but she is shallow and conceited. (Sorry, I know you still love her.) She reminds me of my ex, who will never ever admit to herself the possibility that she could have been wrong about something. She's so beyond hope and help that the best thing for me to do is to not think of her. (I did tell Tom that I'd respect him if he did treat his mother nicely even though he knew how I felt toward her, which is really, really, really badly.) Your ex may be the only one who can get your motor running, but still that doesn't mean you could ever be happy with her. And she would only get your motor running so she could kill it and then leave with a laugh.
When I first "separated" from the ex, subconsciously I thought I should show her that I still loved her and cared about her. I had a picture of her on the table in the front room where I had moved to. She came over and saw it. Why the hell did I do that when all it did was reinforce her sense of superiority? I should have just told her I detested her and the was the worst person I had ever known, and she was the biggest mistake in my life, and that she was the exact opposite of what a Christian should be like. Perhaps I didn't say those things because I knew she held the cards for future negotiations regarding the kids and my financial state. Of course it turns out that she turned the screws as tightly as the law would allow. Totally disgusting.
But I try not to think about her. I still have to deal with her to some extent in the future probably with regard to the kids.
See, I haven't told you anything new.
I suggest you publish your piece for all to see, so that she'll be seen for the person she is.
Thanks for sharing.
Nathan Draper’s email response:
Wow! Great story Tim! This could be the start of a whole new genre. This would make a great podcast for seniors.
Sorry it didn’t end better! But hey!!! You must feel good about making the attempt! You got in the game! You hit the playing field. More than most can say....you’ll feel better soon!
From Virginia:
Ive seen that you've been sending these to us, and the poems are very good. What does it mean that your comment was approved, though? Does it mean they published it in the Times?
Also, I showed Cecilia Dumbo for the first time this week and she loved it. She's not into princesses a whole lot, but boy howdy does she love animals. While watching Dumbo, I can't help but think of you and your time in the circus. Does Dumbo miss the mark for being accurate about what the circus is about? Does it bother you to watch it because it's inaccurate? Just wondering. Hope you're staying warm up there. It's rainy and cold here, and the girls got their shots yesterday so they are feeling pretty crummy. Crummy weather to match their crummy moods. Do you like pecans? We have 3 trees in our front yard that dropped their fruit and we've gathered quite a bit. We can send you some if you'd like. Let me know, take care of yourself!
First things first -- YES! Send me all the pecans you -- I love ‘em! My address is
Tim Torkildson
650 West 100 North Apt 115
Provo Utah 84601
I send dozens of poems to the NYT each week -- most never see the light of day. When the online paper decides to post one they send me that email, so I forward it to you or Madel or Daisy just to show you the old man is still alive and kicking.
I got my flu shot two weeks ago -- didn’t have any after effects at all. I’m surprised by the many old geezers here in my building and at church who scoff at flu shots, saying they are no good or make you more sick than the flu. I had the flu 2 years ago and felt like I was gonna die, so I always get my shots now -- besides, they’re free!
We’ve had dry crisp sunny weather here most of the time -- just perfect for going out for a walk. And I need to get out and walk more -- I put my back out a few weeks back and it’s been a struggle just to stay upright, let alone walk! But I’m doing better now. I haven’t actually been to see a doctor since last May (a new record for me!) but I’m scheduled to start seeing my thyroid specialist and my dermatologist and my gp again all in November. The roads are all tore up in Provo, so there’s no bus service for me to take to my clinic so I have to scrounge around for rides, which I hate doing. I might start asking your mother for rides to the doctor, cuz we’re getting tight again . . .
I took her out to dinner last night and we talked a long time -- she seems open to reestablishing some kind of relationship, although she is moving out to the West Coast as soon as she gets enough money saved up. While she’s here she wants to come over to watch movies on my big screen and let me make her special organic free range grass fed dinners. So, I guess we’ll see how that goes . . .
As far as your Dumbo questions go, I love that movie too -- although I’ve always been a bit disturbed by Dumbo and the mouse having to get drunk to discover their true talents. I equate the circus with being young and healthy and joining the Church -- all very joyous things, so the celebratory spirit of Dumbo I can relate to, even though I knew plenty of old and disappointed and sour people with Ringling; but that was never me. Not back then. I seemed to get really sour in my forties, though -- but now that I’m 66 I feel pretty happy and carefree again. I guess that’s because I believe I am getting a second chance to be funny again through my writing. It’s a great feeling to wake up and know you can make people smile and laugh.
Give my regards to Andy and the kids. I hear Daisy is coming down to visit you during the Holidays; maybe she can bring the pecans back? Love, dad.
Hello Tim,
I have been considering the advances you have made toward me in the last 24 hours.
I appreciate the gesture but I am still very puzzled that you would decide to try connect after such a long time and after the bitter way we separated.
If you recall, I had said things that were distasteful to you and you had said you want nothing to do with me.
I did walk over to your place earlier in the summer time and I told you the things I had appreciated from our relationship.
I had expected that if anything was of value from that connection, you would have done something then.
In considering the long term effects of a relationship rekindled with you I must decline.
I do not want to have anymore contact with you at all.
Sincerely,
Amy
And just today I got a belated email response from Bruce Young:
Wow! I guess that's my response both to the situation and to your writing.
In regard to the situation, I have to say I don't really quite understand what happened--and though, as they say, I would have to have been there, I'm not sure even that would have entirely done the trick. I'm not sure YOU quite understand what happened.
But with my even more limited apprehension, here's my impression: First of all, it sounds as if she is being controlling, even if some of her methods are charming or alluring. Her insistence on your learning how to communicate honestly seems to me ironic, even perhaps a symptom of her own blindness or self-deception. What I mean is that--like many of us who get on hobby horse and use it to judge other people--we think we have mastered a skill by virtue of being obsessively focused on it and using it as a lens to assess other people. But in fact, by doing those very things we reveal our own defect in the matter, and we perhaps unconsciously use what we do to blind ourselves to our defect.
That was a long winded way of explaining why I think she was bearing down on you about honest communication and in doing so was badly misjudging you.
In any case, from your report it doesn't sound like there's much hope for a genuinely positive close relationship between the two of you. She's definitely giving you mixed signals, but (as you note) her focus seems to be on her own agenda, and she doesn't feel she has much use for you unless she can reshape you into what she imagines you should be.
It's sweet in a way to see how easily you were falling for her. But I'm afraid I think that this way lies not only angst but madness. I'm afraid you're going to have to keep sublimating. They say that much of the greatest art, music, and literature of the world came from frustrated people who were sublimating their desires, turning them into something transcendentally good.
I look forward to learning more as we chat one of these days.
Meanwhile, my best wishes for your happiness.
Bruce
