A Man Named Dave

an endless stream of business matters, Marsha and I would steal time to chat aimlessly. As before, when the phone had been our lifeline, I’d sit back and begin to ponder our future together.
    Once back in town, as El Nino began to bear down on the Russian River, Marsha was standing in front of me, describing her day in every detail. Without her realizing, I had basically kidnapped her away from our office to the Rio Villa – to ask her the most important question of my life. For some time now I had planned to ask Marsha on Valentine’s Day. I’d take her to her favorite city in the world – Carmel – and present her with a bouquet of yellow roses on the beach as the sun set. But that was over four weeks away. Like a child at Christmas. I could no longer hold back my excitement. When it came to Marsha, my willpower was as strong as jelly. I was a man possessed.
    As Marsha chatted about her day, I kept trying to sidetrack her. But she was clueless as to my intentions. After a half hour of standing outside under the canopy, I nearly gave up all hope. My timing was completely off. I wanted everything to be perfectly magical for her. Yet deep inside I was terrified she would say no. I discovered, to my own horror, that I could not think of how to ask her. Here I was – a person who spoke for a living, and with a quick wit to take people’s minds off their troubles – and I could not form the most important words of my life.
    As Marsha slowly began to unwind, I stepped closer to her. I wrapped my arms around her waist. In a slow, deep voice I said. “Close your eyes. Take a deep breath.” From the bottom of her chest I could feel Marsha’s tension ease. With my mind spinning, I didn’t know what to say next. Whispering into her ear, I asked, “What do you think of… of the Russian River?” Marsha’s soothing response seemed to calm my shaking legs. “What do you think of … Stephen?” I continued, as my right hand cautiously retrieved the black velvet box from my pocket and stuck it between my thighs.
    A swirl of mist coupled with the freezing rain made Marsha shiver. As she said how much she loved Stephen and how proud she was of him, I closed my eyes. Uttering a quick prayer, I reached for the box. As tears began to trickle from my eyes, I came around in front of Marsha and knelt down as I sprung open the box, asking, “What do you think of … spending the rest of your life with me?”
    I thought by Marsha’s scream that she was furious with me. She jumped up and down on the wooden deck for what seemed like an eternity. Only when she nearly snapped my neck off as she hugged me did I realize she was accepting my proposal.
    A few hours later, in the middle of the worst series of storms to hit California, Marsha and I drove west toward the setting sun. We were putting away the world’s problems for a day. Our only ambition was to spend the remainder of our lives together … happily ever after.
    Another rare moment in time occurred during Stephen’s summer vacation. In July 1998, after celebrating a beautiful day, topped off with a barbecue dinner, I went outside for my evening walk. As usual, Stephen joined me. For years, since he was able to walk, we had strolled together, and since moving to the Russian River, we had practically worn out pairs of shoes watching dusk turn into night as we held hands, taking in the majestic beauty around us. Now, as he approached adolescence, Stephen at times seemed apprehensive about his place in the world.
    That evening the air held a certain crispness as the clouds above us seemed to melt away to streaks of orange as the sun vanished below the ridge. Taking a turn by a familiar road, Stephen looked up and asked, “Back then … was it hard?” Not understanding the question, I asked what he meant. Stephen ducked his head down. “You know, back then?”
    “Oh,” I lightly replied. As a parent, I always had felt my first obligation was to protect my son from the atrocities of the world, especially the horrors from my past. And yet in order to prepare him for adulthood, I felt I had to inform Stephen of the realities of life. As early as age six, he had begun inquiring about my past. Rather than break his trust by lying to him, I had skirted the issue by claiming “my mommy” was sick and sometimes said or did bad things. Back then a simple answer had seemed enough for Stephen’s inquisitive mind. I never had any intention of revealing the magnitude of what had happened to me out of fear of