the table.
I sit up and drink the coffee. It’s been a long time since anyone’s brought me coffee in bed. My hair is a mess. I’m sure my make-up is smeared all over my face, but I know Bert doesn’t mind too much. He leans over and gives me a quick, light kiss. I’m astounded again at how such a big, seemingly clumsy man can be so gentle. He straightens up.
‘Well, I’d better get back to my place. My landlady watches me like a hawk. We don’t want to start any rumors before we even begin teaching. Old Lister, our beloved headmaster, would blow his crispy, blond top.’
That’s how it starts. I expect him to move over to the next available woman but it doesn’t happen that way at all. We begin to go out a little even before school officially starts, just to the local Gasthauses, usually with Wills. I have a hard time keeping from calling him Wilzer myself. That gives some idea of the quiet power of Bert’s personality.
Bert invites me to his place. I go, after Wills is asleep; the lady downstairs said she’d listen for him. I meet him at the Dampher Steg, my favorite place, a little gazebo near the docks for the local cruising boat. It’s a wonderful spot to wait for someone, with the swans and ducks and the sun setting over the lake.
But, as the weeks go by, I rarely have to wait because Bert is usually there before me. He always has something special, a piece of German chocolate, or some wild flowers he’s picked, or a particularly beautiful stone he’s found by the side of the lake and shined up for me. He’s always whittling something, such as two links in a chain, or a heart with our names on it. It’s like a high-school romance, but so much more powerful because we’re older, old enough not to expect too much and to take it as it comes.
He’s there, waiting for me, and we go to his place. He puts his finger to his lips and makes a big deal about sneaking up the back staircase. The landlady was adamant that he was to bring no women to his room. The Germans can be awfully uptight, especially the older ones. Bert says he almost didn’t take the place because of this ‘no women’ business but couldn’t find anything better in his price range.
It’s a real nest, like a bear’s cave or fox’s warren, one big room with a bed nestled under an eave. In fact, everything is tucked under an eave one way or another. But it’s cozy. He makes me a cup of coffee and pours a bit of brandy in it. Usually, I don’t drink alcohol, but this is special. He’s so proud of himself I just can’t say no, so I sip slowly and try getting it down without choking. Mom and I both have this problem of choking on anything spicy or strong.
Bert and I naturally grab onto each other and then drop into that bed where a person can scarcely sit up. I’m beginning to feel I could be falling in love with this creature of a man. This doesn’t fit my plans at all. I want some time, at least two years, to prove myself as a teacher and establish my independence.
We aren’t even halfway through the first semester when Bert gives up his place and moves in with me. I don’t fight it. He makes me feel valued, not just precious, but intrinsically valued, in a way that no one, not even my own parents, who I know love me dearly, ever could.
We have become the ‘romance’ of the school. Bert’s very overt in his affections, taking my hand when we walk, or throwing one of his monster arms over my shoulders. We have a little coffee-clatch of elementary-school teachers who meet at lunch every day and he joins us. At first, a few object, but they quickly accept him. I keep catching him gazing at me.
And the change in Wills is remarkable. He’s always hated school. Now he drives there with Bert and me. Bert chatters along about his math, asking him what parts are hard, and showing him the magic, secret ways he has to lick different kinds of arithmetic, as if they’re fighting off some multi-armed dragon. Bert, who isn’t, himself, much of a reader, can also light a fire under Wills, just by reading to him. He’ll go along, then at critical parts ask questions about what’s happened or what Wills thinks is going to happen. He’ll sometimes act as if he’s stuck and ask Wills to sound out a word. What a fine first-grade teacher he’d make.
He also gets Wills interested in both calculators and his computer. He sucks him in with games, then has him checking his homework, sometimes with the calculator, sometimes with the computer.
Homework actually begins to be fun-time at home. After dinner, Bert opens a beer and Wills spreads his work over the kitchen table. Bert leaves Wills alone till he’s stuck, then comes charging in. It’s like Tom Sawyer whitewashing the fence. Wills will end up begging to do the next part and Bert will keep pushing him off till Wills starts to be mad, then takes over and finishes with joy.
Bert likes to smoke cigars, the most vile cigars I’ve ever smelled. When he moved in, I told him he couldn’t smoke those things in the house. Then I told him he couldn’t smoke in the car either, even when I’m not with him. When he can’t stand it any longer, he’ll go outside and take a walk to have his ‘stogie.’ Invariably, Wills wants to join him. So now I’ve made a new rule: ‘no stogie walk’ until Wills is in bed. I don’t know why Bert puts up with all this.
With each new rule, and there are many, Bert just tilts his head, looks at me to see how serious I am, then shrugs his massive shoulders. I hate bringing up any of these rules. I see how he suffers. I also don’t want to lose him. How often does a woman get a chance at a man like this one?
Bert plays in a basketball league of local Germans and Americans. This is the kind of thing he really likes. Wills loves to watch him. Bert plays like a bull in a china shop, none of the usual slinking around of basketball players. He’ll just dribble, watching for someone to whom he can pass, and if nothing comes up, he’ll find the smallest hole and charge right through it. He has several impressive shots besides a right-and left-hand lay up – especially a stop-and-jump shot with one hand.
I learn the names of these things from watching and having them explained to me after each game. Before, I didn’t know a thing about basketball. Sports, especially team sports, were not exactly favored in our family.
Afterward, Bert likes ‘goin’ out with the boys.’ They go to one of the local Stüben and have a few beers, smoke cigars, and participate in some good old-fashioned male camaraderie crap.
He’ll come home a bit silly, usually bearing some goofy thing he’s picked up, as a love gift, like a beer coaster on which he’s written ‘Bert loves Kate.’ Then he’ll climb in bed and fall right to sleep. I can’t bring myself to ask him to stop.
At Christmas, I talk Bert into coming to the mill and having Christmas with the family. I know he’ll like it: the stuff about the mill that I hated will be just his thing. I tell him that we’ll chop down and steal our Christmas tree as we do every year. Dad will write about it later, in a book called Tidings. I’m Maggie in that book.
Bert fits right in with the family. The morning after we arrive, he’s padding around the main room in a sweatsuit and bare feet. Nobody, not even Dad, walks around at the mill in bare feet. The floor is freezing. Bert’s feet just don’t seem to feel the cold. Bert’s enthusiastic about everything – the pond, the hills, the dark mystical quality of the Morvan, the whole family.
He says it’s the closest thing to Oregon he’s found in Europe, and, in some ways, it might even be better. He connives with the tree-napping, helps mount a ten-footer in the corner next to the fireplace, puts on the highest balls and wraps the lights and garlands around it. He works right in with the family, as if he’s always been there.
Late one evening, after Christmas, when everyone has gone to bed, I have a few moments alone with Dad.
‘What do you think of Bert, Dad?’
‘Well,
