The Between Years

back layers I'd wish I'd left untouched?

    Randy was never messy, which I'd known before we'd moved in together. If anything, I was the one who left crumbs on the kitchen counter, newspapers in the living room, and wet towels in the bathroom. He was patient about my habits, which is all anyone can ask, I guess. He was generally handy around the house, so long as he could look up a fix-it situation on the Internet first. Suffice to say, I drew the line well before handing him a honey-do list.

    Randy had worked off-and-on at the library for years, and settled on an information services position there after his degree was finished. The job was part time, but paid well, with extra cash flowing into our pockets from freelance writing gigs. I'd landed my teaching job at Niagara College in time to make our upcoming mortgage payment that we would have otherwise missed. Talk about a close call! But we agreed that coming home to each other made everything worthwhile.

    On the whole, Randy remained the sweet, mild-mannered guy who opened my doors, pulled out my chairs and took my jacket. Call me stupid, but it dawned on me that we should have had more intense discussions about children before we married. Had we made a solid pact, we would have had no surprises later. My parents were expecting tykes immediately, so were Randy's, and so was I, but the best we had done was to agree that we would have them at some point, and that a little boy would be named Kenny, and a little girl would be named Martha.

    On a fall afternoon, Randy sat in front of a Bills-Patriots game with his feet propped up on the coffee table. Only on Sundays would you see Randy kicking around the house in track pants and a t-shirt, with the ease to hang loose about neatness. I whipped up a bowl of potato chips and onion dip and snuggled up next to him on the couch. Then I nibbled his earlobe, the way I usually did to grab his attention. And he usually responded with a kiss or a squeeze. Except for that one time. Running my finger up and down his arm, I said, “You know, it's been ages since we've talked about the family we want to have.”

    “ Little soon for that, don't you think?” Randy didn't turn his head from the television.

    “ You said before you'd like to be a daddy someday,” I said. “No, you said you would be one. The decision was made and we have names picked out. Kenny and Martha, remember?”

    He turned to face me and rested his hand on my lap. “I know what I said. And I will. One of these days, when the time is right, and we're on our feet financially. And I want time to think everything through before we take such a big step.”

    Since Randy's nature was to think everything through, to have a handle on each detail and potential pitfall before he engaged in anything, I had no trouble believing his sincerity. But his underlying message was clear: he wasn't ready for parenthood and might never be.

    So I peeled back another layer.

    I bailed on the conversation, slithered off the couch and into the kitchen to refill the chip bowl. I threw my hands over my face and struggled not to cry. For the first time, we'd had a disagreement that hadn't ended in some sort of reconciliation or compromise. We never fought per se. No one ever got angry, shouted, stormed out of the room or was sentenced to sleeping on the couch. My Randy is a man of words and reason and I thought I should be so lucky.

    But that night, when we went to bed, I realized as perfect as Randy had been, he had a side to him that was blasé to me and my feelings. He wouldn't even entertain a conversation about family-planning, because the argument was open and shut in his eyes. That was the only time-before the shit hit the fan, at least-that I didn't feel like an equal participant in our marriage. I felt like my hands were tied.

    Still, Randy was destined to take on the challenge, whether or not he could strategize the entire scenario. Sometimes you have to accept challenges even when the situation isn't perfect. I peeled back another layer.

CHAPTER 4
    They say the first wedding anniversary gift should be paper, and Randy was ever the traditionalist. He bought tickets to Shea's Buffalo to see a Buster Keaton silent film. I'd never been to one and thought it would be an experience. And it was. The organist improvised the entire score through an hour and a half-long film. Amazing. Our evening began with dinner at Pano's, a quaint little restaurant in Buffalo's shopping