CHAPTER 28 - MEMORY LANE

             "Woo Hoo! Way to go, Dr. D!"

            We were interrupted by a good-naturedly mocking shout from the sidewalk. It was Rollerbug, the young man who'd earlier inquired about my well-being. He skated up to us with the wide grin of a young man who'd caught his elders in a breach of decorum. If the Methodists of MMU were anything at all like the Baptists of Baylor University, public displays of affection were probably not regarded with much favor on campus.

            Michael responded with a long-suffering smile and took one step back. "Pay attention, Mr. Rivers, and you might learn something," he remarked dryly as he slid his arm around my waist. "Allow me to present an old friend, Ms. Sha . . ." He stopped short as he realized that he was no longer certain of my last name. He looked at me with a quizzically cocked eyebrow.

            "Still Shannon," I responded with an affirmative nod.

            I won't say that he heaved an audible sigh of relief, but he did smile. "Well, then," he said, performing formal introductions. "Maggie Shannon, Mr. Keith Rivers. Mr. Rivers, Ms. Shannon. Keith is in my English Literature Class."

            "It's nice to meet you, Keith," I said, extending my hand as I flashed back to my first meeting with Michael so many years ago.

            The young man removed his wrist guard and shook my hand, a credit to Emily Post in spite of his unusual attire. "Pleased to meet you again, ma'am."

            Michael gave him a meaningful look. "I'm sorry you have to rush off, Mr. Rivers."

            Keith smiled, graciously taking the not so broad hint. "Me, too, sir." Turning to me he remarked, "Hope to see you around ma'am," and winked as he skated away.

            Michael looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry about the interruption. Perhaps we ought to continue this somewhere else."

            I tried to keep from smiling at his embarrassment but achieved only marginal success. "Perhaps you're right," I agreed.

            "Well," Michael asked, "do you have plans for dinner?"

            "Oh, I think I might be free. I just need to drop my things at the hotel."

            "Hotel?" He scoffed. "You don't need to go to a hotel. I have plenty of room. You're certainly more than welcome to stay with me."

            My heart skipped a beat. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of imposing," I protested, even though I didn't mean a word of it.

            "No imposition at all," he assured me. "My guest room is quite comfortable, or so I've been told. Besides, it'll give us more time to catch up." He grinned mischievously. "I promise I'll be a gentleman."

            "Darn the bad luck. You always have been," I retorted.

            He smiled in response. "Listen, you can follow me in your car, and while we're getting you settled at my place, you can decide what you'd like for dinner."

            "Sounds like a plan to me."

***

            The ride to Michael's house along meandering, tree-lined roads gave me a lot of time to think, and my imagination was wandering up and down some twisting and meandering pathways of its own. I had a lot to process. The fact that I had found Michael again and was actually on my way home with him hardly seemed real. I was expecting to wake up at any minute, because this was a scenario that had eluded even my wildest dreams. I hadn't dared let myself consider much beyond our initial reunion. I believed that Michael was genuinely glad to see me, but I'd had no idea where things were going from here, and I'll have to admit to more than a little nervousness when I considered the great unknown before me. Oddly enough, I'd been getting the impression that Michael was also nervous, and I found that more than a little hard to believe. Was it possible that the unflappable Mr. Donovan as apprehensive about seeing me as I was about seeing him?

            Don't jump to wild conclusions, Magdalyn, I lectured myself, You're just old friends, reconnecting after three decades, don't start picking out the china pattern yet.

            We arrived at Michael's house, located in a clearing at the end of a long gravel driveway that had been edged by large rounded stones and was bordered by yet more pine trees. Even though we weren't terribly far removed from town, it looked as though we had been transported into some secluded mountain hideaway. His house was separated from its nearest neighbors on either side by more tall trees and a generously discreet distance. I shook my head in wonder. People pay big bucks for this kind of privacy.

            Michael pulled his car into the detached garage already occupied by a hulking black Hummer while I parked my aging Malibu out front and popped the trunk to remove my luggage. Michael was there to retrieve my suitcase and overnight bag even before I'd had time to get out of the car.

            I followed him up the steps and across the wraparound porch and into the great room with its massive stone fireplace and soaring cathedral ceiling. The whole house was furnished with a southwestern flavor right down to the throw rugs with their Native American motifs on the mirror-polished hardwood floors. "I'll show you to your room," Michael called back over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs to an open loft with balconies overlooking the living room below, "Then I'll give you the 25¢ tour."

            The room he led me to had a four-poster bed with posts as big around as tree trunks, and all the comforts of home. All the comforts of home, that is, if my home just happened to be a house with a six-figure price tag instead of a two-bedroom unit in an aging apartment complex.

            After giving me time to put away my things, Michael showed me around the rest of the house. The loft had a seating area and an entertainment center with a large-screen television. There were also two more bedrooms, one of which had been converted into Michael's office. The master bedroom was on the ground floor off one side of the great room while the kitchen and dining areas were located on the other. There was a foyer that led out to the rear deck overlooking the lake. As he showed me around, I made all the suitably appreciative noises, oohing and aahing over everything. "It's lovely, Michael," I said. Lovely? I thought, it's perfect. It looks like something out of a magazine. And I felt like Cinderella at the palace. Michael had definitely come a long way from that ratty little bungalow in Sansom Park.

            He was obviously pleased by my approbation. "Well thank you, ma'am," he said. "Have you decided what you want for dinner, yet?" He asked. "There are some good restaurants nearby. We've got Chinese, Italian, French, and Mexican," he said, ticking off my choices. "Or, if you're in the mood for something more domestic, there's also seafood, steak, or good old fashioned barbeque."

            "I don't know if I'm up for anything very fancy," I confessed. "To tell you the truth, I'd be happy with a plain old greasy hamburger."

            "A woman after my own heart," he enthused. "I know a little place you might like."

            Our conversation on the way to the restaurant was confined to polite small talk. We traded anecdotes about our respective careers and other innocuous topics, both avoiding the more obvious questions for the time being.

            After a relatively short ride that must have taken us through a time warp along the way, Michael pulled his car into the parking lot of Hubcap Charlie's Diner, a picture-perfect reproduction of a restaurant straight out of the 1950's. The booths were black Naugahyde with white piping. The tables were white Formica and chrome. The black and white floor tiles made a checkerboard pattern and there were vintage advertisements on the walls.

            We were shown to our booth by a waitress wearing a poodle skirt and saddle shoes while Fats Domino sang about finding his thrill on Blueberry Hill from a big Seeburg Jukebox at one end of the room. There were smaller Seeburg wall boxes at each table that allowed patrons to play their musical favorites without even leaving their seats.

            I slid into the booth and began flipping through the selections. "Oh my lord," I exclaimed. "I haven't seen one of these things since 1974. Remember? They had them at the old Mexican Inn on Jacksboro Highway." The music on this jukebox predated the one I remembered by a couple of decades. The records on this machine were by artists like Chuck Berry and Buddy Holly, plus a score of others that read like a Who's Who from the golden age of rock and roll.

            A waitress appeared at the end of the table. "Can I get you folks somethin' to drink?"

            I smiled. This was like something out of a movie. "I'll have a cherry Coke, of course."

            Michael was enjoying my enjoyment. "Just iced tea for me, please."

            "Comin' right up, hon."

            As she left to fill our drink orders, I flipped through the menu. "Well, professor," I asked, "what do you recommend?"

            "The Big Bopper Burger is good," he suggested, "if you're hungry."

            "Starving!" I affirmed. "So I'll trust your judgment," I said. "You haven't steered me wrong, yet."

            The waitress returned with our drinks and took our orders. After she left, Michael looked at me across the table. "I can't believe you're really here, Maggie."

            I looked down at my drink. "I'm sorry for just dropping in out of the blue."

            Michael reached across the table and covered my hand with his. "Are you joking? I can't begin to tell you how glad I am to see you."

            I looked down at his hand covering mine and caught the glint of gold on his little finger. It was the Claddagh ring. "You're still wearing my ring?

            He smiled sheepishly. "Well, it was a gift from someone who meant a lot to me. Besides, I did tell you that I'd never take it off."

            Just then, a man and woman entered the diner. From their leather chaps and vests, I could tell that they were a couple of serious motorcycle enthusiasts. I looked at Michael. "That reminds me. Do you still have your Harley?"

            He shook his head, looking a little wistful. "No, motorcycles are for people who don't have to pay their own life insurance premiums. I got rid of mine after I tried to kill myself."

            My eyes widened. "I do hope you're speaking metaphorically."

            He grinned. "I'm an English teacher. Metaphor is my second language." He chuckled. "No, I had an accident. I was riding around the lake and taking some of those curves on Heron Drive just a little too fast. I ended up having an unfortunate rendezvous with a tree near the Whiting house; you know that big one everybody called The Castle. I spent the night at John Peter Smith Hospital with a concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and an impressive collection of abrasions and contusions."

            I reached up and traced the scar above his eye. "Is that where you got this?"

            He touched the scar himself. "No, I already had this one," he said quietly. "This came from your father's signet ring."

            It was my turn to feel embarrassed. "I'm really sorry about that," I said. "Please believe that I didn't know anything about what happened. In fact, I didn't find out until years later."

            Michael actually looked relieved. "I'm glad. You don't know how I worried about you after it happened. I was afraid your dad had taken his anger out on you after he left me."

            I shook my head. "No, that wasn't his style. He had a more devious punishment in store for me. You only had to take a beating. I got sent to Catholic school. An all girl Catholic school."

            "Ouch."

            "I've never been sure exactly who Dad was trying to punish more, me or the Catholic Church." I looked at him askance, "Did you ever try to debate theology with a nun? I can't recommend it as an edifying experience."

            "You didn't!" Then he laughed. "Of course, you did!"

            I nodded. "Let's just say that there are still a couple of sisters out there who are convinced that I am going to hell, going straight to hell, I shall not pass purgatory, nor will I collect 200 indulgences."

            Our meal arrived and we continued our reminiscences between bites.

            "I'm curious about something," I said, munching on a fat French fry covered with ketchup. "My father said that you didn't fight back. As I recall, you could have taken him easily back then." I eyed his still-fit frame appreciatively, "You definitely still could. Was he telling the truth?"

            Michael wiped a bit of mustard from the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. "Yes, he was telling the truth. I guess I felt guilty," he confessed. "I knew how I would've felt if the tables had been turned. You were his daughter, after all, and you were only sixteen. The truth was that I really wanted to do a lot more than just kiss you that day. To my way of thinking, I supposed I deserved that pounding he gave me for what I'd considered doing as much as for anything I'd done."

            I smiled inwardly. Oh ho! Michael might be a gentleman, but he wasn't perfect after all. "You know, after I finished school I moved back to Fort Worth and tried to find you," I said.

            "After what happened with you and your dad, I decided on a change of scenery, and I transferred to UT Austin."

            "I know." I said. Michael looked surprised. "The MMU web site," I explained. "How did you think I found you?"

            "I'm not over being glad you found me. I haven't gotten around to considering the how." He looked into my eyes and finished quietly, "Or the why."

            My heart skipped another beat and a little knot of apprehension twisted in my stomach, unsettling the burger and fries. I suppose he deserved an honest explanation. "I'm too old to play coquettish games, Michael," I said. "It started at Christmas. Mom found a box of stuff I'd left behind when I moved out on my own. She brought it back to me when she and Dad came up for a visit." I swirled the ice in my Coke with the straw. "There was another box inside the big box. It was one of those old wooden cigar boxes, and inside that box was where I'd locked away everything that reminded me of you: photographs, your mother's music box, the book of poetry you gave me, and this." I reached inside the neck of my sweater and withdrew the dog tag.

            "Wow," he said, reaching across the table and examining the tag. "I can't believe you still have this."

            "You know," I said, "I always wanted to ask you why you gave this to me. I was afraid to ask at the time, and I didn't have the opportunity later."

            Michael took a deep breath and blew it out. "Whew! I told myself at the time that it didn't mean anything. What I actually said was, ‘It don't mean nuthin'.' That was our way of coping in Vietnam. Whenever something happened that was too big to get our heads around, we'd say, ‘It don't mean nuthin'.' It was like a mantra or sometimes it was a prayer. When I gave you that, I suppose I just wanted you to have something of mine." He looked away, remembering, and then back at me. "Hey, I was already flirting with a second degree felony just by spending time with you. I couldn't very well give you a ring and expect myself or anyone else to keep believing that our friendship was totally innocent."

            "Looking through all those souvenirs brought back a lot of memories." I said. "I always wondered what happened to you after we said goodbye, so I started a search. I just wanted to find you again and assure myself that you were well and happy."

            "I thought about trying to find you," he confessed, "but I didn't have much to go on. Your father and I were never formally introduced, and I realized too late that I didn't even know his first name or what he did for a living. Years later I was afraid to look for you. I was afraid you'd forgotten all about me, and I imagined you married and living in domestic bliss with a house full of kids."

            I shuddered at the thought. "Talk about a fate worse than death. No thank you."

            "It sounds terrible to admit," he said. "I wanted you to be happy, but I wasn't sure I could endure knowing about it."

            I shook my head, but smiled at him. "So, the old double-standard is alive and well?"

            He nodded. "It's awful, I know. Just when you think you're so enlightened, you suddenly find out how far you still have to go." His hangdog expression turned oddly hopeful. "Are you telling me that you've never married?"

            I shrugged. "I came close once or twice, but inclination never coincided with opportunity. The last time was almost 20 years ago." I made a wry face. "But for the grace of God, I might have wound up barefoot and pregnant in Arkansas."

            Michael was definitely curious, "What happened?"

            "Oh, he was a musician," I explained with a wave of my hand as though that in and of itself could explain everything. "I seem to have a fatal weakness for those types, particularly guitar players." I gave Michael a look that implied my weakness was all his fault. "And, let's just say it ended badly, the ‘shots were fired' kind of badly."

            Michael laughed nervously. "Now I assume that you're the one speaking metaphorically?"

            I was the picture of innocence. "No. I'm speaking quite literally. He still has a bullet in his arm."

            Michael's mouth dropped open. "What?!"

            I feigned affronted dignity. "Well, I certainly didn't shoot him! He apparently missed the chapter in Cheating for Dummies where it explains how one should try to make sure that the other woman doesn't have another man and to definitely make sure that the other man doesn't have a gun." I giggled. "Our love triangle turned out to be a trapezoid. He and the other woman moved to Arkansas and got married. She left him for someone else a year later." I shook my head, "And no one believed me when I expressed my condolences. I can't imagine why they'd question my sincerity."

            "You're kidding." Michael regarded me with wonder, "And that was 20 years ago?"

            "Thereabouts," I said, turning serious. "I can joke about it now, but I fell into a deep, dark hole after it happened. It took me a long time to before I was able to get over him and climb out again. And I made myself a promise that I'd never again let any man do to me what he'd done. And I haven't."

            "But you've been alone," he said quietly.

            "That's as may be," I countered, "but I have my self respect, "and very few regrets." I sighed. "Enough about me. What about your sordid past? Surely you're not going to sit there and tell me that you've been single all these years?"

            "Oh, I was married," he admitted, removing his wallet from his back pocket and showing me a picture of a very attractive young man and woman. "And I have two stepchildren that I'm quite fond of. His name is Nick. He's a fireman. Her name is Valerie, and she's an elementary school teacher."

            It was totally irrational, I know, but I felt a distinct twinge of jealousy. "They're lovely," I said. "What about your wife?"

            "Ex-wife," he corrected.

            "Ex-wife," I amended.

            "We found out that good friends don't always make good spouses." He rested one arm on the back of the seat and began to explain, "We were working together on a project, spending a lot of time with each other. We had a lot in common, we got along well, and we were both single. We just got married because it seemed like the thing to do at the time. We stayed married for five years, but there was no passion. There never really was, and we finally decided to give it up and go our separate ways in what has to be on record as the most cordial divorce in the history of Montgomery County."

            "I see," I said. He was reassuring me. And I knew it. After all these years, he could still read me like the proverbial book.

            "We're still very friendly," he admitted. "I even get along well with her third husband. In fact, they usually have me over for the holidays. That's where I spent Christmas."

            I was spared further comment by the arrival of the waitress with our check.