Blunt Darts

colder, slowly slipping away. But that warmth isn’t enough—there has to be something first, some kindred spark.”
    “So now,” she snapped, “now you’re going to say I don’t ‘spark’ you? That you weren’t excited to be near me?”
    “No, that’s not it. That’s what’s drawing me, don’t you see? You’re real, and you want me to be with you and be a part of your life. And that, plus the physical attraction, is what’s drawing me to you. But I don’t want to make you a part of my life. I don’t feel toward you the way I felt toward Beth.”
    She threw her hands up and jumped to her feet. She crossed her arms and turned toward me and argued down to me.
    “You big jerk! I’m sorry, John, but that’s what you are. I can understand that I’m the first woman you’ve let yourself feel anything about since your wife died, and I can see why that would make you feel, oh, awkward even, like I think you’ve been tonight. But my God, John, how can you expect to feel toward someone the same affinity you felt toward Beth so soon? I mean, you knew her for, what, ten years? That’s the sort of thing that takes time to grow, for God’s sake!” Her eyes were filling with tears.
    “But that’s just it, Val. After Beth died, and in between binges with the booze, I read all sorts of articles, whole books even, on the need to rebuild, to start over in your life, block by block. The problem is, it’s wrong. Those writers were wrong, and you’re wrong. There really are special people in the world, people who are special to other people from the word go, and that’s the way it was with Beth and me. She was the only woman I’d ever loved. She was the only one who knew me, who knew what I was thinking and could anticipate what I’d be doing. It was magic between us from the first time I met her.”
    “Magic?” Val said unbelievingly. “Magic?”
    “Don’t you see? I knew she was the one the instant I met her, and she did about me. Call it our Catholic upbringing or indoctrination if you like, but that was the attitude I had, and despite all the other Catholic attitudes I’ve fallen away from, it’s still the one I have. And I’m right, Val. And the others, you, the writers and all, are wrong. At least about me.”
    Although Val then knelt in front of me, I’m sure she wasn’t mocking my references to religion. She put her hands on my knees and leaned her face toward, and almost into, mine.
    “John, that sort of thing does happen, but it happens when you’re young, maybe when you’re in high school or even college, before too many disappointments hit you and you wake up to the fact that life has imperfections in it. But you’re ignoring reality if you tell me that unless it’s love at first sight, a relationship can’t work for you. That’s just not the way it is, John.”
    I kissed her forehead and closed my hands over hers.
    “I’m sorry, Val, but that’s the way it is, at least for me. And if I kid myself any further about it, I really will be ignoring reality.”
    She blinked away her tears and rose to her feet. Her face took on a determined look.
    “I feel sorry for you, John. I really do. Not because your wife died, but because you’re letting you die after her.” She turned away and picked up the drinks. She began walking to the kitchen. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to retract the dinner invitation,” she said over her shoulder.
    I was already halfway to the front door.
     
    As I drove away from Valerie’s, I felt cold and empty. I just drove, paying little attention (to my eventual regret) to anything around me.
    The problem was, Valerie was right about one thing: It was far too late in the day to begin looking for Stephen. I took a county road that wound roughly north. When it crossed Route 9, I headed west.
    I came pretty quickly to the Sheraton Tara, a large, mock-Tudor motor inn. It’s about twenty miles from Boston where Route 9 and the Mass Pike intersect. I checked in, ate a monstrous steak in the restaurant, and then downed several too many screwdrivers while watching some suave suburbanites rock and disco till closing.
     
     
     

     
     
    “Oh, I’m sorry, sir.”
    The maid was young and plain. She spoke with a heavy accent I couldn’t catch. There was too much sunlight in the room.
    She closed the door behind her as she backed out. I was on top of the covers of one bed, my pants on top of the other. I was still wearing my socks and flannel shirt.