was that I didn’t. I lived so stoically for so long with Jack’s unwillingness to commit that I no longer recognized my own pain.
“I love you, Merry,” Jack would say, “but I’m not ready to get married yet. Let’s pray about it, and we’ll decide in six months, okay? Let’s just enjoy today.”
And his melting smile and beguiling manner and earnest eyes would win my assent.
I might have continued to act the wimp forever if my younger brother, Sam, hadn’t forced me to see things differently and shamed me into taking my life back into my own hands. When he was a kid, Sam loved Jack, but in his later high school years Sam matured greatly. In fact, in many ways, he matured beyond Jack, who by this time was a handsome, charming man fast approaching thirty.
“He’s always late, Merry, hours late sometimes, and he never calls to tell you,” Sam said. “And he never apologizes. That’s inconsiderate. I’d never do that to a girl I was dating.”
“Don’t let it bother you,” I said. “It’s just Jack’s way. He has trouble with time.”
“And you think that excuses his lack of respect?”
“It’s okay.” I patted his arm. “Really.”
Or: “Does he ever ask you what you want to do, Merry? It seems to me you’ve watched an awful lot of church league basketball and baseball games, but I don’t remember him taking you to a concert or anything you like. And he’s always trailing his fan club of guys who are as irresponsible as he is. Who does he think you are? One of the boys?”
“Believe me, he knows I’m not one of the boys,” I said. “And I like church league ball games. I can always listen to music on a CD or my iPod, but you can’t see these games unless you’re there.”
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t go to the games,” Sam said. “I’m saying he should go to the concerts, too. For you.”
“If I’m not bothered, Sam, then I don’t think you need to be, either.”
Or: “He’s coming to get you in five minutes, and he just called? Isn’t he ever considerate enough to plan ahead? And aren’t you smart enough to be unavailable? For heaven’s sake, Merry, you were going shopping with Ellen and Joyce. Now you’re going to let them down just to be here for him? How’s he supposed to learn to appreciate you? You let him walk all over you! You’re a marshmallow!”
“The girls understand that Jack comes first, Sam.”
“He might come first with you. I just wonder if you really come first with him.”
“Sam! How unkind!”
When Sam first started talking against Jack, I just ignored him. After all, what did he know about love? He was only a high school kid.
When I began to suspect that he might be right, I worked hard to plug my ears. I couldn’t listen; that would be disloyal to Jack.
One memorable night this past July, Jack was scheduled to pick me up for my birthday dinner. We were going to Anna Maria’s, where they served the best pasta in the world, and I was dressed in Jack’s favorite dress.
“It makes your dark eyes flash and your skin glow,” he’d told me once.
The last think I did as I got ready was tuck into my purse a letter I received that day about an article I’d done on children with AIDS.
“Perhaps people will understand my grief better because of your article,” the mother of a stricken child had written. “I cannot thank you enough for your tenderness and accuracy.”
I smiled with satisfaction. Even Jack would have to see that I’d done well.
Mom and Dad and Sam left about six-thirty for an evening with friends, and I waited patiently for Jack. At eight he hadn’t arrived, nor had he called. Nine and no Jack. Ten. At ten-thirty, as I was rereading my fan letter for the umpteenth time to buck up my flagging spirits, the phone rang.
“Merry, I’m hungry.”
“Me, too.”
It was too late for Anna Maria’s and fettucine Alfredo, but we could still get a Big Mac if we hurried. “Happy birthday” can sound sweet over special sauce, too.
“Come on over to my place and make us some eggs, okay?” Jack said.
So much for special sauce. I looked at my letter, folded it carefully and put it under the phone where it would be safe until I got home.
“Sure, Jack,” I said softly. “Be right there.”
What an idiot.
I opened the front door just as Mom and Dad and Sam crossed the porch.
“How was dinner?” Mom asked.
I hesitated. I knew how they would react to the news that Jack not only hadn’t come for me, he had also asked me to come to him.
Asked? a little voice inside said. Asked? How about told.
It’s nice to realize that some semblance of sanity remained, but at the time, I tried to squash it.
Sam, now a handsome eighteen-year-old three weeks short of leaving for Penn State, looked at me.
“You never went out,” he said. “Right?”
The kid was too smart. Willing my chin not to tremble, I nodded.
“But you’re going out now?” Mom asked. She looked around for Jack.
“He’s not here, is he, Merry?” said Sam. “Jerky Jack isn’t here. He never was here. What did he do? Forget?”
“No!” said I. “He called.”
“Sure,” said Sam sarcastically. “About five minutes ago, I bet. What was his excuse?”
“He didn’t make any excuses,” I said in a shaky voice.
“But if Jack’s not here, where are you going?” Mom asked.
“To Jack’s.”
They all stared at me.
“He’s hungry,” I said, just as if that explained everything.
“Of course he is,” Sam said. “Jerky Jack wants to eat Marshmallow Merry.”
Dad reached out and laid a hand on Sam’s arm. “Easy, son.”
“Dad!” Sam was almost in tears. “He’s making a fool of her!”
My father looked at me with pain in his eyes. I looked at the floor.
“Merry,” Dad said, “do you know that you rarely laugh anymore?”
I looked up, startled. That wasn’t what I expected him to say. I expected the heart-wrenching talk about Jack wasting my youth.
