CHAPTER 25 - THOUGH LOVERS BE LOST

            Needless to say, there had been no reunion on my eighteenth birthday. In fact, I hadn't seen Michael again since I'd left him standing on his front porch all those summers ago. On the contrary, many years passed before I came into possession of enough of the puzzle too make sense out of the events that followed.

            I reached into the cigar box once more and withdrew the envelope. It was still sealed, though the paper had yellowed with age - and I was feeling a little yellow with age myself. The postmark next to the 10¢ stamp was dated just a little over a week after our farewell. It carried the handwritten notation, "Not At This Address - Return to Sender".

            I can still remember my shock and devastation when I'd reached into the mailbox and removed, not the letter I had expected from Michael, but my own letter back again. I'd felt hurt and betrayed. I didn't want to believe that Michael's promises and loving words had all been nothing but lies. Standing there, staring at the envelope, though, I hadn't known what else to think. I knew only one thing for certain, this returned letter meant that Michael James Donovan was well and truly lost to me.

            When I'd left Michael on that fateful day, I was so preoccupied by my sorrow that I didn't notice or question many of the things that took on new significance years later after additional facts came to light. Case in point: my father's injured hand. When he met up with us in San Antonio that evening, the knuckles on his right hand had been bruised and scraped. He'd explained it away by saying that he'd had an accident while loading the truck. Not until I was in college five years later did I learn the real story.

            It was a holiday dinner, Thanksgiving I think. My Uncle Dan was there with his family. Kay was in the kitchen with my mom and me, helping to put the finishing touches on the meal. The men folk were seated around the table. My 17 year old cousin, Larry, was sporting a rather impressive black eye, a memento of last weekend's football game when he'd paid too much attention to a certain cheerleader, and her linebacker boyfriend had taken offense. Naturally, my father and uncle began to commiserate with Larry, comparing notes and sharing tales of their own battle scars.

            "The last time I was in a fight," my father bragged, "it wasn't much of a fight at all. It was the day we left Fort Worth. This old boy had been messin' around with Maggie. When I found out about it, we had a come to Jesus meetin' on his front porch. He got a plain ol' country whuppin'. It was kinda strange," he mused, "young guy like that and he never even got in a punch, didn't even try to defend himself."

            I was carrying a tureen of giblet gravy into the dining room when I heard my father boasting about how he'd assaulted Michael. I stood transfixed as I listened to him tell about following me that last day, and how he'd watched our passionate farewell. Of course, his prurient imagination had had conjured up a tawdry affair from that single interlude, from our first kiss.

            My heart plummeted into my stomach as he told about calling his old friend who'd happened to be Michael's landlord, and convincing him to evict Michael. That was why my letter had been returned. Michael hadn't abandoned me; my father had driven him away. We'd both been his victims, and now it was too late.

            The incident that followed would ever after be referred to as "the year we redecorated the dining room". I think psychiatrists call what happened next a fugue, because my knowledge of the events comes from what I was later told rather than actual memory.

            I don't remember hurling the tureen. I don't remember missing my father's head by inches. But in my defense, I was upset. And, to my credit, my aim has improved over the years. And, I really don't remember going berserk and lunging at him or screaming like a madwoman.

            I do vaguely remember my cousin, Larry, physically restraining me in a bear hug that pinned my arms to my body and lifted me off the ground to keep me from inflicting serious injury on my father. And, I do remember my Uncle Dan yelling at him to get me out of the house.

            Larry herded me into the car and drove us aimlessly around the city as I related some of my story. He sat there, open-mouthed, listening while I unfolded the tale of my first love. He had no idea. None of my family did. How ironic, I thought, to be a total stranger to those who are supposed to know you best. It was true, though. My family had never paid much attention to me, and I had long ago ceased talking to them.

            One thing finally made sense. I now understood why my father, a dyed-in-the-wool Baptist, would suddenly decide to send his daughter to Catholic girl's school. He'd jumped to the conclusion that Michael and I had been intimate, and that I had become promiscuous. Sending me to parochial school was an attempt to keep me out of trouble by keeping me out of circulation. Talking to me, asking for my side of the story was something that would never have occurred to him. Why should he let a few annoying facts get in the way of a good fantasy?

            Looking back, I suddenly realized that he might have been more abrupt in his manner and even surly toward me during those first weeks after we'd moved. At the time, I was so depressed over losing Michael that I hadn't noticed. Or, I'd simply attributed it to stress from his new position in a new place. He, on the other hand, was sure that Michael and I had known each other in the biblical sense and was worried that I might be pregnant. That wouldn't have looked good for a man in his new position. That's why, I suppose, my mother suddenly decided that it was time for my first visit to every woman's favorite doctor. The verdict, of course, had been "not guilty by reason of virginity". I wonder if my parents were at all sorry to have misjudged me, or were they just relieved to have dodged a bullet - or an illegitimate grandchild.

            Larry kept me out of the house until I was able to convince him that I was sufficiently calm enough to have abandoned any intention of choking the life out of my father or stabbing him through the heart with the carving knife. I moved out of the house a week later, though. It was months before I could look at my father without wanting to retch and years before I could bring myself to speak to him again. Never a very prominent presence in my life, he became relegated to the periphery of my consciousness. In my mind, he was merely that person who accompanied my mother, like a little dog that followed in her footsteps and came when it was called. I didn't think ill of my father. I seldom thought much of him at all.

            I'd kept both of my parents and most of my family at arm's length for years. We were strangers connected by a genetic accident. Our relationships were cordial but not close. The sad thing was that I don't think they even noticed. A casual connection was close enough for them. My closest relationships were reserved for my friends, and there were one or two in whom I confided, but none to whom I'd told this tale.

            After finishing college, I'd moved back to Fort Worth. Part of me wanted some physical distance to match the emotional distance between my parents and me. And, I suppose, part of me hoped against all hope that I would find Michael again. But I had no luck. After that day in August, he seemed to have vanished. I asked around, but no one knew or remembered him. It had been too long. Wherever he'd gone, he'd left no forwarding address. All that remained was to give up and try to get on with my life.

            So, I'd gone to work as an administrative professional at a publishing company. In my day, though, they were called "secretaries". I displayed a natural talent for organization and an affinity for detail. It wasn't long until I'd worked my way up through the ranks to become the assistant to one of the executive vice-presidents.

            My days were full, but my nights were another story. Romance eluded me, and I suppose I'd no one but myself to blame. Subconsciously, I was looking for someone like Michael, but no one ever measured up to that impossible ideal. There was no one like Michael. So, with a penchant for musicians and older men, I drifted through a few unsuccessful relationships that were short-lived and far between. My heart, for better or worse, belonged to someone else. I'd known the best, and I couldn't force myself to settle for any of the rest.

 ***

            I reached into the box one last time and removed the Sucrets tin. It rattled, and I knew what was inside even before I opened it. Sure enough, it was Michael's dog tag. I took it out, and held the cool metal in my hand. Squeezing my fingers shut around it I felt the edges dig into my palm, and I laid my closed fist over my heart. Then, I unfurled the chain and placed it around my neck once more.

            Crosby, Stills, and Nash began to sing Helplessly Hoping for the umpteenth time and I glanced across the room at my desk, at my computer. A sixteen-year-old in 1974 had no resources. Likewise, the resources of a twenty-one-year old in 1979 were not much better. But this was the 21st Century, an age when privacy had become a thing of the past and anonymity was largely an illusion. I was a very resourceful woman, and there were plenty of web sites and message boards devoted to Vietnam veterans. There were also plenty of web sites and message boards devoted to finding people in general. I had a friend, an adoptee, who'd been able to locate her birth parents through an Internet search. Locating someone from my distant past might not be easy, but it just might be possible.