I’d had a bit of a crush on him, but he never even looked my way back then. He had a reputation for fast cars and fast women. I’d always thought he was cute. The four beers I’d drunk had tipped me into a generous mood.
“You’re Bob!” I shouted above the music. “Diane’s brother?”
He nodded and smiled slowly, sexily.
“What are you doing here?” I asked foolishly.
“Looking for a good-looking woman like you.”
I laughed. “Then why don’t you ask this good-looking woman to dance?”
Bob followed me to my table and we set our drinks down so we could join the crowd as it moved to the beat of Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll.” We danced every dance until last call. During the final waltz of the night, Bob quietly asked if he could take me home. Without giving it a second thought I agreed.
After the dance, Bob bought us both fish and chips from the diner next door to the Legion. We talked about the past and laughed quite a bit while we hungrily downed every scrap of the greasy fare.
On the way home in his car Bob turned up the music on the radio. Creedence Clearwater Revival belted out “Bad Moon Rising” as Bob held my hand for the first time. I felt a tingle throughout my whole body. I wanted to ask him to come home with me, to lie down in the dark and embrace him, but I wasn’t sure how the children would react to Bob’s presence. He told me he was staying at his parents’ home. His first marriage, like mine, had just broken up.
Before he dropped me off at my place we parked on a side road. Bob took me in his arms and kissed me in a way that set off intense emotions. My body responded to his advances at once and we continued kissing. I felt a hunger so consuming I wanted to make love to him right there. As he continued to kiss me, I moved my hands up his back, working the shirt free from his waist. His lips moved down my throat, as my fingernails dug into his back. I’d never felt such ecstasy. Then I froze.
“What’s the matter?” Bob asked, trying to catch his breath.
“I have to go. It’s late. I promised the baby-sitter.”
Bob kissed me again. “Okay,” he simply said, starting the car.
It was extremely hard to go home after that. I was vulnerable, but I had to force myself not to go too far, to show restraint for once.
When Bob dropped me off, I stood with a smile plastered on my face and watched him drive away.
Bob and I saw each other often. He came to my home for supper about a week after we met. The kids were all over him the minute he walked in the door, and although I’d told him I had four children, I was afraid their energy would scare him off. I needn’t have worried. He was great with kids.
Bob was a carpenter who hailed from a warm French family. The Donelles lived down the road from our trailer park in an attractive bungalow Bob’s father had built. His dad was also a carpenter, a man who had a fondness for the bottle. His mom didn’t drink, but she was passionate about dancing. And they all seemed to laugh a great deal. I always enjoyed spending time at their tranquil house where the biggest problem was nothing more than what to cook for dinner. I adored them all immediately because they were kind to me and accepted me for who I was. At last I felt as if I belonged somewhere.
My four children quickly grew to love Bob, especially Heather. He won her heart, and maybe mine, about a month after we started going out together when he sat up one night and rocked Heather for hours to ease the pain of an earache.
When summer arrived, the kids and I moved from the trailer back into an apartment in Oromocto. I couldn’t afford to keep the trailer up on my own and it had too many bad memories to make me feel attached to it. The apartment was sparsely furnished because the furniture in the trailer had to be sold with the mobile home to satisfy the bank loan.
I was penniless. There was only one place to turn—the welfare office. A friend told me I could find help there to rent an apartment. The thought of going on welfare filled me with shame and regret, but I had no way of feeding my children unless I went out and begged in the streets. I didn’t have a job and my parents were barely managing to provide for their own children still living at home. I figured I could find employment, maybe with the newspaper again, if I were in Oromocto. The welfare people told me I could supplement my income by working part-time until a full-time job came along.
Feeling certain God must care about the well-being of my children, even if He was mad at me for parting company with my husband, I prayed to Him to guide me toward opportunity. Almost immediately my prayers were answered. A week after we moved into the apartment a new office opened up down the hall in my apartment building. It turned out the office belonged to a new weekly newspaper, the Oromocto Monitor. They were advertising for someone to work part-time as a reporter. When I handed in my application, I told the receptionist I wouldn’t have much trouble getting to work on time, regardless of the weather. I could ensure this. I was hired the same day by Al Nonovitch, the owner/editor.
Bob was genuinely happy for me when I informed him about my success. He was always telling me I was smart, and that made me feel worthy. I thought he was the most wonderful man I’d ever met. I’d read stories about being in love. Now I knew exactly how it felt.
A few months after Bob and I started dating I began experiencing bouts of dizziness. I made an appointment with my doctor and he suggested I might have diabetes. I would have to be tested. When I told Bob, I could see the news deeply affected him. He was so shaken he had to sit down.
“When will you know for sure?” he asked gently, taking my hand and patting it. “When’s the test?”
“The test’s tomorrow morning,” I told him. “Dr. Roxborough says I should know in a couple of days.”
“Well, I know you’ll be okay. I’ll do anything I can to help.”
I learned later he went to church that night—a place he reserved mostly for Christmas, Easter, funerals, and weddings—and lit a candle for me, offering it up with hope for my good health. All the roses in the world couldn’t have touched me more. Here was a man who cared for me. I wasn’t used to such devotion, and it felt so healthy and charitable.
When the news came that I wasn’t diabetic, Bob brought over takeout fried chicken for supper to celebrate.
My mother’s father died that year. He was one of the men whose unwanted caresses had plagued my childhood. I had mixed feelings about his death. For obvious reasons I wasn’t as close to him as I was to my grandmother, but I was saddened that he had to die in an old folks’ home alone.
I don’t remember much about the funeral other than the hymn, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” sung by my cousin, Heather. I questioned my grandfather’s prearranged choice for a musical selection. Had he ever really considered Jesus to be his friend? I’d certainly seen no sign of it while he was living. But when I heard someone say my grandfather was finally free from alcohol, I supposed the hymn might have been fitting, after all. Even dirty old men needed friends, I thought, feeling the same kind of pity I’d felt when I visited Stan in Centracare.
IN A STRANGE APARTMENT
