just started kindergarten. Great kid. I’ll show you his picture.”
He followed me to the kitchen and placed the beer and the bag on top of the worn Formica counter.
“Would you like a glass of wine or a beer?”
“Wine’s fine, thanks.”
As I poured two glasses from a half gallon of Gallo, he leaned against the counter and handed me the paper bag. “Here, this is for you.”
“Oh, how nice. What a surprise,” I bubbled. “I love surprises. Should I open it now?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Why did I ask him whether or not to open the bag? He must think I’m an idiot. Stop acting like a fourteen-year-old at a junior-high dance. What’s in this bag anyway? Pot? I hope not!
I closed my eyes and warily slid my right hand into the bottom of the bag, cupped an object the size of a small stone, and fingered its smooth surface.
“I’m not sure. It feels small, and rounded, and kind of silky.”
“Why don’t you sneak a look?”
I opened the top of the bag, reached down, and grabbed a handful of . . . chestnuts.
“Thought you might like these. You said you were going to build a fire. You know ‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire,’ Nat King Cole?”
Curious gift, I thought. Not a bottle of wine, or a box of chocolates, or a pot of mums. Chestnuts. This guy’s thoughtful. And clever.
He hooked me right in with those nuts.
For the next five hours, we sipped wine and outlined the surface of our lives, our conversation as seamless as the river that flowed through this mountain valley. We spoke of our childhoods, his in a suburb of Dallas, mine in a suburb of New York City. He spoke fondly of his undergraduate days at Austin College in Sherman, Texas.
“I graduated in 1971, in the middle of the war . . .”
“Oh. Vietnam . . .”
What was there to say about that terrible conflict?
“Um-hmm. I was about to be drafted. In fact, I was number five in the lottery.”
I grimaced.
“You were in Vietnam?”
“No, no. Rather than go over there as cannon fodder, I went into a Presbyterian seminary in Louisville, Kentucky.”
“You became a minister . . .? I thought Marlene said you were a lawyer.” I hoped I didn’t look as confused as I felt. Terry smiled.
“No, preaching’s not for me; I realized that after I spent some time working with some Catholic nuns in a poor section of town. But it was a stimulating experience. So I headed to Austin and law school at UT.”
Then it was my turn. I told him about my extended Italian family, my Catholic education, and time at City College in New York. I rattled off the names of the grammar schools I’d attended, including the one called Fourteen Holy Martyrs.
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? That was the name of a school? What exactly did the fourteen of them do?”
“No, I’m not kidding. That was the name of the school. I have no idea what they did, probably burned themselves in oil or jumped from a mountaintop to avoid temptation of the flesh. The Catholics are big on temptation.”
“So are the Southern Baptists. My mother used to send me to Sunday school at Walnut Hill Baptist Church.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Well, it wasn’t too lovely when they warned us that we’d surely land in hell if we drank and gambled. Guess it didn’t take, because I played a lot of poker when I was in college. Drank a whole lot, too.”
We touched on geography.
“I grew up in Bayside, near Long Island. The ocean is in my blood. Someday I’m going to live by the sea.”
“Then you’d better plan to head out of these mountains someday. You know, I didn’t see the ocean until I was eleven. My mother and I drove from Dallas to visit relatives in Oregon. That was one of the few trips I took as a child.”
“Not see the ocean until you were eleven? That’s unbelievable. I’m a water baby. There’s a picture of me at Coney Island when I was only eighteen months old. A pudgy little thing with a pot belly sticking out, carrying a pail and shovel. And my grandmother had a summer cottage on Long Island, so we went to the beach all the time. I took swimming lessons from the Red Cross when I was five. I still swim laps at the Y to keep in shape.”
“Must work. You look pretty good to me.”
A surge of delight washed over me like a gentle wave, even though I had pretty much invited that compliment. But he hadn’t disappointed.
Terry mentioned the “big sky” out West. “I sure miss that.”
“All I know about the West is from the Westerns I watched with my dad when I was a kid. I’ve never been out there.”
Suddenly, Terry was gone, replaced by a pretty good John Wayne impersonator. “Now, missy, let’s get this straight,” he drawled, exactly like the Duke, even pushing an imaginary cowboy hat further back on his head, and hooking a thumb into his belt. “I’m partial to those movies too. After all, I’m a Texan, and damn proud of it.” (Like every Texan I’ve ever met, he felt entitled to bragging rights.)
This charming stranger could certainly make me smile.
And when Terry “returned,” we talked about our recent moves to West Virginia and speculated about how long we might stay. I rambled on too long about my impending divorce. He didn’t interrupt me. “Mind if I get another beer?” he asked.
I learned that he was a movie buff who favored classics like The Wizard of Oz, It’s a Wonderful Life, Citizen Kane, and The Maltese Falcon. It seemed that movie stars like Tracy, Bogart, Gable, Jimmy Stewart, and Cary Grant were as real to him as the trees that rustled outside the living room window.
“I actually wanted to go to UCLA to study film, but that seemed unrealistic for a poor kid like me. Also too risky. Not enough security.”
“You’re still young. Maybe you’ll change careers and go. I read somewhere that people might change careers three times in a lifetime. Are you sorry you became a lawyer?”
“Well, I’m no Perry Mason. But I’m not too shoddy either. I don’t make piles of money at Legal Aid, but I feel good about what I do. Poor people deserve to be represented. Besides, my office is clean and well lit.” He winked.
I later discovered that this sensitive child of an alcoholic had mastered the subtleties of nonverbal body language. This served him well in court and at poker games with his cronies. I soon learned that everyone who met Terry was warmed by that self-deprecating humor and calm, courteous manner that was charming
