Paul was back in England and I was back in school. The apartment was
suddenly big, quiet, and lonesome. At school, the last semester before
graduation was hard for everyone. We were keyed up knowing that we would
soon be leaving the protected world of the student for real life, to be on
our own without the mantle of “She's a student” to explain the gaps in our
skills. State Boards loomed ahead. Pass them or your last three years were
a waste of time. Now we began to study with Boards, not the next test, in
mind. Everyone talked about which hospital, which specialty, they were
going to try to get into. Several of the girls were planning June weddings.
Everyone knew about Paul coming to see me and the response was a little
disconcerting. When I had first returned from England my classmates had
bombarded me with excited questions about the Beatles. They were jealous
but thrilled to personally know anyone who had met the Beatles. When John
had shown up, everyone suddenly began treating me differently. I wasn't
just someone who got to meet the Beatles anymore. I had moved up to a
higher plane of existence, from “Someone Who Met the Beatles” to “Friend of
a Beatle” and was considered a little less approachable. In a way that was
fine because for the most part they still wanted to hear all the details,
but they no longer expected I would tell all, but it did cause me to feel
isolated at times.
Now, as my status changed from “Friend of a Beatle” to “Girlfriend of a
Beatle”, things shifted again. I was different now. In the daily grind of
classes and clinical, it was easy for them to fall back into seeing me as
the old Terry, a fellow sufferer on the road to becoming a nurse, but a
single comment or stare from an outsider would snap them into an awkward
awareness of my status. It was not a comfortable feeling and I was grateful
for the equalizing effect of being just another student. It was hard to
stay equal for long though. Nurses, patients, and their families,
housekeeping staff, cafeteria help, everyone seemed to want to talk to me
or at least gawk at me. When the day was through, reporters waited outside.
They waited not only for me but for anyone in a student uniform, hoping to
get an inside scoop from a fellow student.
Surprisingly, it was that level of curiosity by the press that made things
easier for me with my classmates. Of course, some were more than willing to
talk about me to the press, but many of them began to see it for the
insanity it was. One by one they came back to treating me more normally. In
a few weeks, the reporters, content with some shots of me in my student
nurse get-up, disbanded.
As a small group of friends reformed around me, the news that I was going
to go to England as soon as school was out got mixed reviews. They all
understood it, were excited for me, but it was clear the idea of starting a
job none of us felt ready to handle and doing so in a foreign country with
a guy whose life was incomprehensible to them sounded scary to them. Most
of the time I thought they were right, then I would hear Paul's voice on
the phone and everything would fall back into place.
I had my pediatric rotation that semester. What rotten timing. Every
teenager on the unit discovered within minutes of their admission that one
of the nurses was Paul's girlfriend. They were nice, even a lot of fun to
talk to about the Beatles, but at times had even less tact than reporters.
Every girl asked, “Are you going to marry him?” I learned quickly to smile
and say, “It's a little soon to decide that. We need to get to know each
other better before we know if we want to get married,” and then change the
subject quickly.
Knowing the Beatles was a great ice-breaker with the kids though and they
opened up and talked to me. That made being their nurse a lot easier.
Dealing with a teenager whose verbal skills often seem limited to a sulky
“yes” or “no” is hard.
Less helpful was the fact that they quickly had friends skipping school to
visit them during my shift, and that they objected when another student was
assigned to them. I had to make rounds and visit the others every day to
keep the peace. The other five students in my clinical group quickly
learned to bribe their teens with promises that I would come and talk to
them, get them autographs, etc., so they benefited from my notoriety too.
My clinical instructor was not amused, however. She pulled me aside after
the first week and told me my behavior was unprofessional and I was not to
bring my personal life to the hospital with me! I was too shocked to try to
reason with her. I never brought up the subject of the Beatles, so all I
could do after her warning was try to change the subject. That proved
impossible when kids would get out of their beds to roam the halls looking
for me.
By the end of the second week, it was obvious that my clinical instructor
had it in for me. She criticized everything I did, left my clinical
assignment homework hemorrhaging red ink and generally made my life hell.
Thankfully, her ability to affect my grades was pretty much limited to her
role as my clinical instructor. She was also a classroom instructor but
there she had less power over my grades; she couldn't get around a right
answer on a multiple choice test. I prayed she wouldn't switch to more
subjective essay questions where she could red ink me to death.
On Friday of the second week, she was cross examining me at the nurse's
station about my decision to give a patient a pain pill. When she found she
couldn't fault the decision to give it in the first place, she said, “I
assume you know all the possible side effects of the medication?” When I
explained that I had reviewed my drug card first, she began quizzing me
about the drug. One of the nurses listening in wrote something on a piece
of paper and held it up behind my instructor's back for me to see. “Hives,
Nausea, low WBC.” I added those to my limited list and my instructor ran
out of steam and let me go back to work.
I went back later to thank the nurse only to find out she was the Head
Nurse in Pediatrics. She said that all the nurses were aware of what was
going on and gave me some advice for dealing with the situation. “It is the
same thing I tell every nurse. Whenever something happens that you are
afraid is going to be misinterpreted, write it down and get witnesses to
sign it or add their observations. That helps when you are dealing with a
bad supervisor, a doctor who is out of line, or just bad working
conditions.”
When I thanked her she said, “I admit, your presence here is disruptive at
times, but that is no excuse for what she is doing. Besides, if talking
about the Beatles can get a sick kid to eat, it is good nursing!”
After Paul left I waited day to day to hear from my parents. As curious as
I was to know what they were thinking, feeling, planning, I waited for them
to call me. If I called them it would come across as asking permission,
seeking approval. I was going ahead with my plans regardless so I wasn't
asking for permission. I wanted approval, but the best I felt I would get
would be some degree of understanding. So I waited.
Paul called the day he got back to London. “I have jet lag so bad I don't
know if it is day or night here much less what time it is for you, but I
needed to hear your voice.”
His first question on that call and the next call was “How are things with
the parents?” When I said they hadn't called he said, “That's bad, isn't
it?” I wasn't sure. They had been so nice about everything over New Year's,
maybe they were adjusting to the idea and didn't feel the need to call me
on the carpet. Or maybe the more time they had to think about things the
more upset they got and now they were too upset to talk to me.
“Or they are waiting for the report from the private investigator they
hired to check me out,” was Paul's suggestion.
Brenda and Sandy were as concerned as Paul. With Paul gone we could talk
freely about everything my being with him meant, the fans, the gossip, the
lack of privacy, and, inevitably, the other women. Somehow, instinctively I
guess, they knew Paul had been around. Such things were never mentioned in
the teen fan magazines we had access to but rumors spread among fans.
Brenda, straightforward as usual, asked, “Do you think he is going to screw
around back in England?”
“I don't know,” I sighed. “He said not, but he is Paul McCartney. He
doesn't have to go looking for it. They come after him.”
“But he loves you!” was the predictable response from Sandy.
“Yeah, but he loves sex, too. He is used to having it. You heard him. He
was fifteen when he started having sex and since the first girl swooned at
the Cavern, none of them had to go without!”
“What will you do if you find out he is getting it elsewhere?”
I sighed. “I won't find out. His friends sure won't tell me. Even John
probably wouldn't, and if rumors are floating around, I can't trust them.”
“So you are just going to close your eyes to whatever happens.”
“I guess so. Until I am there with him. Then if stuff is still going on
I'll have to face up to it.”
“You'll leave him?”
“Of course.” It was far from that clear cut in my mind. I knew more about
the differences between love and sex than they did and I wasn't sure how I
would handle it if I found out he was being unfaithful. A lot would depend
on the circumstances, but that was going to stay my secret. My
roommates—and most definitely Paul—were not going to know that I would
forgive him if he occasionally got it elsewhere while we were apart and
might even tolerate an isolated incident later on. I didn't like the way I
felt. I didn't want him with anyone else and had I fallen in love with an
ordinary guy I would have expected complete faithfulness, but it just
seemed unrealistic to expect that in this situation.
Mom finally called, saying little beyond “We need to
talk.” I suspected my parents had had time to recover from the shock,
regroup, and plan their strategy. They were now ready to begin the campaign
to change my mind. I dutifully drove down the next Sunday I had off. After
a few preliminary greetings, we settled in at the kitchen table, Mom, Dad,
big brother. Anne came in and sat down. Dad started to say something to her
and I said, “I'd like her to stay.” When Anne didn't get sent back to the
living room, Jan joined us. And so we began.
“Have you talked to Paul since he left?” Mom asked, politely easing into
it. I had half expected her to start with “Do you really think that man has
any intention of marrying you?”
“Yes, A couple of times a week,” I said. Not feeling like wasting time
getting down to the heart of the matter, I went on. “He is concerned about
how you are taking this. He is afraid you are going to make me chose
between him and you.” Before they could respond, I added, “I've told him
I'll be coming to England when school is out no matter what, but he's
afraid that you will never forgive me. He doesn't want it to come to that.”
“Then maybe he should just leave you alone,” Dad growled.
“We tried that. We were both miserable,” I said.
“You mean when you came back from England?” Mom asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “Leaving him was so awful.” Foolishly I added, “We talked
about my staying... " I trailed off wishing I hadn't said that.
“You weren't planning to come back? Dammit, you'd have never gotten on that
plane if we had any idea what the hell was going on!” Dad was horrified and
when men feel any strong emotion, it usually comes out first as anger. A
woman's first response to that anger is usually to burst into tears, and I
nearly did just that. Dealing with John Lennon had taught me a thing or two
about dealing with angry responses that hid other feelings though.
“It wasn't like that, Dad,” I said quietly and hopefully, calmly. “When I
went to England it was exactly as I told you. I was there to take care of
John and to earn money for school. Falling in love with Paul ... it just
happened. We both knew from the start that this wasn't going to be easy. I
might have stayed if I could have gotten into a nursing school there,
but... "
I wasn't sure how much I wanted to tell them, but I could hear Paul's voice
saying “Don't airbrush it,” and went on. "But before we could find out if
that was possible, I ... I saw Paul with someone else. A girl who hung
around outside his house all the time told me he had been seeing her all
along. Living with her. I felt like the biggest fool in the world. So I
left. I came home and tried to forget I had ever met him.”
I heard Jan's shocked “He was living with someone else?” but for a moment I
was somewhere else back in time remembering that awful moment that night at
the theater, crying my heart out to John, the plane trip home, the endless
days and nights of trying to forget.
I heard Anne say “No, he wasn't! It was just a mistake.” I tuned back in
and, as briefly as I could, told them about seeing Paul with Angie the day
he was supposed to be in Liverpool and what the girls at the theater had
said about him living with her. I left out the bit about Francie Schwartz.
“You didn't stay long enough to ask him what was going on?” Jan asked.
“No. I just wanted to come home.”
Mom must have been listening between the lines because her next question
was right on target. “Then you must have had some other reason for
believing what that girl said. You would have given him a chance to
explain.”
Zing! Answering that would have meant telling things I didn't want to tell;
Jane and Francie, the bathrobe, the makeup, Paul leaving me during the
middle of the night.
“There were a lot of little things,” I answered slowly, “but the biggest
thing was that I had trouble believing that he could care about me. I never
felt like I could compare to the rest of the girls he knows. Models,
actresses. The Beautiful People. I was the Country Mouse. So when it looked
like suave, debonair bachelor was just leading the simple country girl down
the garden path, I found that easier to believe.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “Tammy and The Big Star?”
“Laws a' mercy, yes. 'Xactly like that! I do declare, iffen you ain't the
smartest big brother a girl could ever have!”
The younger generation laughed. The elder had never suffered through Tammy
Tell Me True. Mom was still zeroing in on the truth. She interrupted the
laughter to ask abruptly, “So you took the next plane home and he didn't
even bother trying to find out why you left?”
OK. To explain this part I was going to have to say the “J” word that set
Mom's teeth on edge. “No. Because he thought I was with John.” Mom
predictably gasped in horror and I rushed to explain. “It just happened
that the same day I left, John left Cyn. He went to Liverpool for a day or
so then to New York and California. He didn't tell anyone his plans and so
some people thought we had left together.”
“Paul couldn't have believed that!” Jan said.
“He wouldn't have, but I left him a note. I said I realized there had been
someone else all along so I didn't want to hear from him ever again. Since
he wasn't seeing someone else, he thought I meant I was.” I hesitated but
decided that, like Paul, they were going to have to accept John as my
friend. “He knew John and I were really good friends and he thought that
something happened and we realized we loved each other and we took off
together. So he didn't try to get in touch with me. I took that as proof
that he had been just playing games. It wasn't until John got back to
London after Thanksgiving that Paul found out I wasn't with him. John
wouldn't let Paul get in touch with me until school was out though. He
thought I might have a little trouble concentrating on finals when I found
out it was all a mistake, but Paul was there the day school was out.”
“He just showed up on your doorstep?” Jan asked. Something in her
expression and voice reminded me of Sandy.
I did not want to get into the fact that I had been expecting John. Boy, I
didn't want to get into that. “Something like that.”
“And they lived happily ever after!” Anne said, but she and I were the only
ones who laughed. I guess we were the only ones who believed it would
happen. Even Jan looked sideways at my mom. I was certain there had been a
great deal of family discussion about the unlikelihood of that. Mom got up
and got the coffee pot and refilled cups. I got up and made another cup of
tea, a defiant, symbolic gesture. No one said anything and when I sat back
down, the silence hung on.
I debated about how to draw this back to what I considered the central
question: “Are you going to try to understand or are you going to be
unreasonable, pig headed, and try to forbid it?” Definitely not the way to
phrase it. While I considered openings, Mom beat me to the punch.
“Paul seems nice and we can see how you feel about each other, but... " and
she couldn't finish. She was fighting tears.
“Have you thought about what you are getting into?” Dad asked. Not angry
anymore, but as upset as I had ever seen him. “You'll be thousands of miles
from home with a guy you can't possibly know that much about. He'll get you
over there and God only knows what will happen. Do you think we are just
going to stand by and let this happen?”
“No, I don't want you to just stand by and let it happen. I want you to
help me! Help me make it work! It isn't going to be easy, and if you choose
to make it harder that won't stop me from trying but it might be enough to
make it fall apart no matter how hard I try.”
Silence descended around the table with a defeated, sad look on Dad's face
and Mom looking like she was about to fall apart. I took a breath and tried
to sound reasonable and thoughtful, not hysterical. “And yes, I have
thought about what I am getting into.”
“I don't think that you are thinking at all!” my dad said. “I think he has
already got you so brain-washed you'd do anything he said.”
I saw red. It was one thing to say I wasn't thinking, but to imply that
Paul was somehow masterminding a plot to get me away from my family was too
much. Dad had spoken rather quietly, not really in anger, but I responded
with anger. Just like men have trouble expressing other emotions, women
have trouble expressing anger. I was mad but I could feel tears burning my
eyes and my voice was wobbly.
“That is so unfair! He isn't telling me what to do! All he wants is to be
with me. He would give anything to have me just quit school and go to
England now but he understands how important school is to me, and he
understands how you feel. He is the one who says I shouldn't go to England
until I sort this out with you. He's afraid that if I leave here on bad
terms with you, I will always regret it. He isn't brainwashing me, he just
loves me and doesn't want this to be hard for me. He's not—”
“Terry, I didn't mean it that way.” Dad cut in, and he looked so miserable,
I knew he meant it. “I just meant you are so crazy about him that you can't
think straight. You can't see how much trouble you are walking into.”
That degree of understanding brought on the tears that anger hadn't quite
been enough to release. Steve handed me the box of Kleenex. I took one and
passed the box to Mom and we took time out for a little nose wiping and a
chance to organize our thoughts.
“I've been to England,” I said, calm again. “I've seen how he lives. I
think I can see the problems more clearly than you can. It isn't going to
be easy, but it isn't going to be the nightmare you think either. I am
going to be thousands of miles away from my family, my friends, but I'll
have Paul. If I have problems with Paul, I do have other people to turn to.
I made some friends while I was there.” I was thinking of George and Pattie
and Ringo and Maureen and even Neil and Terry. I was closer to Cyn than to
any of them, but in light of what happened between John and I, I couldn't see running to her
for help. Even if she didn't know, I would still feel uncomfortable.
“And whatever happens, John is there.” I couldn't help but laugh a little.
“Going to John for help when your life is a mess may be like taking coals
to Newcastle, but he is my friend and he will do anything he can to help.”
I had gone this far and they were listening. So I kept on. “I know you
worry about the drug stuff, but I know I won't get involved in that.”
Mom responded, “Terry, I know you think that, but when Paul and his friends
are using drugs—”
”Dad and Steve and Sandy and half of my friends smoke and everybody else
seems to drink, but I don't smoke and I have never been even close to
drunk. Why do you think I'll do drugs? Besides, I've worked too hard to get
through nursing school. I won't blow my nursing license. I can't say drugs
won't be a problem. I worry about Paul getting busted. I worry about what
John will try next. I worry about Paul's friends thinking I am square. Not
just because I won't smoke with them, but ... just everything. I don't know
if I can fit in with those people.” I thought about the crowd that had
gathered at Paul's the night he threw the party for Marianne Faithful.
“They were all nice to me, but they are all into music and art and I don't
know anything about that stuff. They are rich, sophisticated, and famous. I
never know what to say or even what to wear.”
I sighed. “Then there are the reporters. They just keep after you, taking
your picture over and over, asking stupid questions, just waiting for you
to say something stupid.”
All the scary things I had only talked about in bits in pieces with Paul or
Brenda or Sandy were spilling out, one after another. “And the fans. The
kids here are a nuisance but they are nice. In England, some of them gave
me such dirty looks, like I was stealing Paul away from them personally.
Pattie warned me never to go into a bathroom alone when I was out with Paul
because they can get so nasty. I can't wait until they find out that I am
not just another date. I'm not even British and I am with their Paul.”
Anne interrupted. “The fans will get used to the idea. We got used to Cyn
and Maureen and I have even adjusted to the idea of Pattie. Ughh!”
I had to laugh at her sour expression.
She went on, “You'll have friends of your own. Normal people. You'll have
new roommates (Mom and Dad exchanged a look, no doubt wondering if I
planned to find a roommate other than a certain dark-haired guy.) and
you'll meet all kinds of people at work.”
I appreciated her reassurances, especially since I hadn't expected her to
stick her neck out by supporting me, but when she mentioned work, it
brought up a whole bunch of other fears.
“I am nervous enough about graduating and getting a job as a real nurse.
Doing that in England scares the hell out of me. They spell edema with an
“o” and call nurses ‘sisters'! It's not like a really foreign country, but
it is different. Even the language. There were times when I couldn't
understand what they were saying because of the accent. What will I do if I
get patients who talk that way? Or Cockney? Or Scottish? I couldn't
understand half of what those people said!”
I couldn't stop. Bogeymen were crawling out of all my mental closets. “Half
the nurses I work with now are always pestering me about the Beatles. Some
of them resent me because they like Paul or because they don't like him.
What if I have to work for someone like the clinical instructor I have now?
She gets on me every time someone says something about the Beatles to me. I
never mention them, but she acts like it is my fault other people bring it
up. She just loves it when I mess up. She'd love to flunk me.”
“She can't do that!” my Mom said, absolutely outraged. “You have to tell
somebody what she's doing.”
“Everybody knows, even the head nurse. She told me to keep a notebook and
write down what happens every time she calls me on the carpet for
something. She says she won't have a leg to stand on if she tries to get me
in trouble or gives me an unfair grade.”
“So she doesn't like the Beatles or what?” Steve asked.
“Or what,” I replied with a sigh. “I have no idea what her problem is.
People don't seem to need a reason to act weird when the Beatles are
involved. They just go off the deep end in one direction or the other. It
makes dealing with all of this so hard, harder than it would be if I fell
in love with just any Englishman. It is scary enough to think of going off
to a country where I can't even figure out what the price of something is,
where a pound is money and a stone is pounds and they drive in kilometers
on the wrong side of the road, but when I think about all that... Just
sitting here now, it seems impossible, but when I am with Paul, I can't
imagine not doing it. It just feels so right, but maybe I am wrong about
that too. What if his family doesn't like me? What if he plays around? He's
had girls throwing themselves at him for so long, how long is he going to
be content with just me? What if he doesn't want to get married? What if he
gets tired of me?” By this point I was well past sniffling and I couldn't
go on.
Jan protested, “C’mon, Terry. What girl ever knows any of that? There isn't
any guarantee that any guy will walk down the aisle or be faithful even if
he does.”
We all laughed at the aggrieved look Steve gave her, and then Steve said,
“Your in-laws will be how many hours away? How far is Liverpool from
London?”
“About six hours by car,” I guessed.
“Six hours away and I could even get along with my in-laws!” That got him a
wifely elbow in the ribs, but he was used to that and kept talking.
“Besides, these days nobody ever knows where a job is going to take them.
You could marry the boy next door and end up living in a really foreign
country like California or New York!”
We all laughed at that. To a Midwesterner, New York and California were
populated by the truly bizarre.
“Or Iowa,” said Dad, and we all roared. Every Minnesotan knows that the
civilized world ends at the southern border of our state. Iowegians eat
catfish, for cryin' out loud!
Anne pointed out, “Even if you stayed in Minneapolis, you would probably
end up working at a different hospital with different people since St.
Vincent's isn't hiring.”
“And Brenda will either move back home or get married as soon as school is
out,” Mom surprised me by adding.
The oddity of what was happening here suddenly hit all of us. They were
supposed to be telling me all the reasons it wouldn't work but everything
was in reverse. I was feeling very hopeful but then Dad said, “None of that
is quite in the same league as moving to England with a man who ... with
him.” Dad didn't seem to know where to begin to list the dangers. I felt as
if we were back at square one, as if none of the discussion we had just had
ever happened, but then Dad added, “You do seem to have been thinking about
it, though. You aren't blind to the problems.”
“No, I’m not. Maybe there are some I haven't even thought of. Maybe some of
the things I am worried about will turn out to be nothing. I don't know.
All I know is I have to try. If I know you ... I don't know. Understand, I
guess. I know I can't expect you to be happy about it, but if you at least
are tolerant, then that will be one less problem to deal with. I told Paul
that you wouldn't disown me, but you could make it very hard.”
Mom and Dad looked at each other. One of those despairing looks of parents
who know their kids are getting in over their heads. Mom reached out to
touch Dad's arm. I had no idea if that was meant to restrain his answer or
encourage it.
“What if we tell you that you can't go?” he asked but it was barely a
question. It felt more like a threat or at least a solid prediction. It was
pretty obvious that it was number one on their list of solutions to this
problem.
I suppose in other families the response would have included how much I
loved them and appreciated how much they had done for me and some nifty
line about how well they had prepared me to strike out on my own. But my
family was no more demonstrative or talkative about their feelings than
they were melodramatic so I gave them the simple answer. “If I have to go
knowing you are angry with me, maybe not even speaking to me, I am still
going.”
“Well, we've got six months to change your mind,” was Dad's simple
response.
That wasn't good enough for me. “And if I don't?” Mom and Dad looked at
each other yet again. Dad cleared his throat and avoided looking at me. Mom
fidgeted with her Kleenex and avoided looking at me. I looked around the
room. Steve was suddenly very busy filling his pipe and Jan got up to fuss
at Jenny over nothing in particular. Only Anne would look at me and she
just looked as miserable as I felt.
“Look,” I pleaded, “I am not asking for your blessing on this or your
permission. I just want to know that if I write to you and tell you all
about my life I will at least get a letter back once in a while. Is that
too much to ask for?”
“No,” said Dad emphatically and wonder of wonders there was humor in his
voice when he went on, “but I would think your millionaire boyfriend can
afford lots of transatlantic calls. I plan to call collect.”
That was all I needed. They would fight it but when I went anyway, I would
be stepping over their objections not stepping over an ultimatum and
cutting all ties. I got up and walked around the table and hugged my dad.
“I think he would even buy you airline tickets now and then,” I said.
“You'll understand if I say I hope it doesn't come to that?”
“Yeah, I'll understand. I'll even tolerate it. Mom, how do you feel about
this?”
“I guess I go along with your father. I know how you feel and he
seems nice... "
“But?”
“But I don't think it will last. People like that go through marriages one
after another.”
I didn't have an answer to that. Divorce was getting more common all the time
and celebrities certainly led the field. I fell back on humor. At least you
think he'll get around to marrying me. That's a start!”
Mom and Dad managed a little smile along with the rest of us, but a moment
later I caught a look passing between them. I was used to the fact that
when it came to dealing with us kids, my parents could convey volumes to
each other, reach consensus, and plan strategy with a simple look at each
other, but something about that look was so fraught with unspoken comment
that I knew that particular subject had indeed been discussed at length
between them.
I didn't stay at my parents that night. I was relieved at the way things
had gone and didn't want to risk stirring things up with any more talk.
Although we had reached agreement that I wouldn't be disowned, I knew that
the issue was far from settled. They would work to change my mind right
down to the minute I got on the plane in June. I went back to the apartment
and called Paul and told him that Mom and Dad were not going to be a
roadblock, just an obstacle course. That much achieved, I settled down to
ride out the rest of the winter.
I missed him, but it was nothing like the constant ache I had lived with
all fall because I knew it was temporary. It sounds awful, but at that
point, I would have to admit that I missed him more in my bed than in my
life. I guess that was because we talked at least twice a week and because
everything I did, I did with him in my mind. Even though he was an ocean
away, he was in my life. Everything was just a step to take to get back to
him. Classes and studying were daily chores, tests were landmarks in
progress. Dealing with the fans who still appeared outside was training for
the future.
Another reason I didn't miss having him around was that it had seemed so
odd to have him here with me in the first place. I was supposed to be in
London with him, not vise-versa. Not that he gave that message. He was
easygoing, liked my friends, enjoyed just doing ordinary things with us.
Between his high energy level and the commotion that seemed stir around
him, the apartment seemed awfully quiet without him. He'd had a good time
at my parents over New Years with a piano, horses, TV, a little kid, and a
dog to play with. Still, as comfortable as he seemed here, he belonged in
London. His life was in the studio with the others, his partners in the
business of making music, not hanging around an apartment in Minneapolis.
Unbelievably, the days went by fast. I worked an extra day or two a week to
keep busy and tired enough to sleep at night instead of lying awake wanting
him. When I missed a call from him because I was at work, Paul tried to
persuade me to work less. He would send money for anything I needed. I told
him I wouldn't take his money, that I had enough to get me through until
the end of the school year. He said he just wanted to be able to pick up
the phone and call me any time. “Oh, so I have to stay home in case you
call?” I teased, knowing he didn't mean that at all.
“No, but I want to be able to ring you up when I get lonely. I want you to
call me. Anytime. Reverse the charges, OK?”
I sighed. "I will call if-"
He cut me off. "You won't call unless it is some emergency.”
I gave in, knowing he was right. “OK but only if it is a really big
emergency. Like I need to hear your voice. Or I want to tell you I love
you. Or it snowed again. Those kinds of big emergencies.”
So we talked two or three times a week. I got proficient at politely
putting off reporters and fans, and turned down more social invitations
than I had gotten in my entire life. I had thought I was suspiciously
popular when I came back from England, but suddenly having me at a party
was considered critical to its success.
I found myself watching what I ate and going for long walks. The small
weight loss of the time I had been flattened by Paul was replaced by the
birth control pills which had done some hormonal magic on my boobs. They
were a solid B cup now, not a size larger but a definite improvement. I had
never fussed about how I looked but I had already had my picture taken a
hundred times and knew that one of these days a photo was going to end up
in “Tiger Beat”. I splurged and got my hair trimmed at a beauty salon and
started reading all of Sandy's “Glamour” and other fashion magazines. I
memorized all the fashion dont's, including the one about staying away from
fad fashions. I wasn't sure how a Beatle girlfriend could dress if not in
fad fashions, but, on my budget, it didn't matter anyway.
I bought a second full-length mirror and then went through my entire closet
trying on everything and making sure it looked as good from the back as the
front, as good sitting as standing. I got rid of every blouse that tended
to gap open in front and re-hemmed skirts that didn't hang right. I didn't
have much of a wardrobe left when I got through, but at least I knew I
wouldn't find myself in a teen mag wearing a skirt that sagged and blouse
that gapped. It wasn't as much vanity as fear. I didn't want to look like
someone who didn't deserve Paul.
I mentioned something to Paul about going through my clothes, and he
offered to send money so I could buy more and once more I turned him down,
feeling odd about taking money from him. “But you will let me buy your
plane ticket?” he asked. I had to laugh and give in there. There was no way
I could afford to fly to England over spring break and no way I was not
going!
Mom called at least twice a week, expressing varying levels of dismay and
running the gamut of ways to dissuade me: Subtle comments about the
problems I was going to run into, strong hints that now that he was gone I
needed to seriously reconsider, a bit of how embarrassing this was to her
and Dad, occasional remarks questioning Paul's motives in all this, and
always the suggestion that I was just carried away by the glamor of it all
and they would be there for me when I came to my senses. One call was
teary, another angry, and several were surface acceptance with strong
subversive undertows. I counted to ten several times during each call,
steered the conversation to safer waters, and tried to be quietly resolute.
My game plan was to acknowledge their concerns but refuse to get involved
in debating the pros and cons. It was an argument I couldn't win because so
much of what they said was true. Going to England after graduation in the
hope that what Paul and I had would hold up was a risk. That wasn't
cynicism about love in general. I believed in happy ever after just like
every girl in love and even believed our love to be something extra strong,
extra special, but everything about his life made it more complicated and
therefore at higher risk for failure than the average boy meets girl story.
It was going to be difficult, and I was going to be far from home if things
went bad. I had no argument to make in return. All the good feelings I had
about Paul and our chances together were just that—feelings. Mom and Dad
had facts on their side. Some of them were blown out of proportion, but
still facts. So I listened, tried not to counter every argument with “But I
love him,” and tried not to be angry with them. After a month of that, I
started cutting off the conversation with excuses about homework to be done
and sometimes I “wasn't home” when the phone rang and it was them.
January flew by and Paul told me that he and the others were constantly
being asked if the Beatles were breaking up. The absence of announced plans
for any new tour had finally been translated. They would not be touring
anymore. When no Christmas album was released, the rumor mill went into
full gear. Music critics and others were announcing publicly that the
Beatles were finished, the bubble had burst. They had lasted longer than
most but they were, after all, just another fad. Paul and the others
repeatedly denied that they were breaking up, explaining that they were
going to continue to record but touring was pointless, they couldn't
reproduce the sound on stage. Even so, no one seemed to believe they would
stay together.
On the topic of staying together, during a call late in January, Paul said
hesitantly, “I don't know how you are going to feel about this, but John
went back to Cyn.”
I was silent for a moment, too horrified to speak. John had said once that
he would go back to Cyn if necessary to keep the world from finding out we
had been together. In my happiness at being back with Paul, I had put that
out of my mind.
“Tess?” Paul sounded strange, no doubt wondering about my silence, worried
about what I was thinking.
“Is the press still giving him a hard time about the divorce or is it the
lawyers? Is that why?” I asked, trying not to sound concerned but merely
curious.
“No, not really. It has died down a bit already. I think he is just
realizing what he is giving up.”
Relieved, I said “I am not all that surprised, I guess,” I said. “He needs
someone. Someone who isn't there for what they can get out of it.”
“She loves him.”
“Yeah, and he does care about her, but—"
“You don't think it is a good thing, them getting back together?”
“No. Yes. It is good for John. He needs someone to hold onto, keep him in
line a bit,” I suggested with a little laugh, “but for Cyn ... I just don't
think it will last. I don't know.”
“Perhaps it will. Maybe now that he has had a little vacation from marriage
he will see things differently. And we won't be off on tour all the time."
“Yeah, maybe,” I agreed, and changed the subject. I didn't want to discuss
what I knew of John's feelings or lack of feelings for Cyn. It was
something he had talked about in California and that was a subject best
left undisturbed.
Meanwhile, they were hard at work on the new album. Paul said it was really
funny because even though they
had just started, they all had a good feeling about the new album. People
were saying it would take forever at the rate they were going, but he said
there was no need to hurry. There was no movie to make, no tour to survive
looming up. They had made it clear that they wouldn't be pushed, wouldn't
just fill up an album or a soundtrack for the record company. They had made
the decision to be recording artists, not performers and their job was in
the studio. Now they had time to try new things, time to do it right. It
was a good feeling for all of them. They were still meeting at someone’s
house, doing very preliminary run-throughs of song ideas, but they were
also being given studio time. Paul was excited about that. It was such an
unheard-of opportunity for a group to be allowed to use high priced studio
time for anything but actual recording. They were in the studio several
nights a week, recording, experimenting, layering tracks, and the more ways
they heard things, the more ideas they got.
It seemed they had more ideas than EMI cared to hear though. The cover of
Revolver had been such a success, the Beatles didn’t want to go back to the
old standard group photo cover. Paul had some ideas about commissioning
artwork for a gatefold style album and EMI was objecting to the cost of the
artwork and to the price of using a gatefold cover for a single album. Paul
was irritated with their penny pinching and determined that this album
would be something special even if production costs ate half the profits.
Campaigning for that was taking a lot of time and effort.
It was great to hear he was happily occupied. Studio sessions began in the
evening and ran until well past midnight so I knew he was staying busy and
wasn’t out “pulling birds” in the clubs most nights. He didn't say too much
about what he did the rest of the time, but he did mention at various times
that he had been to a movie, to a gallery showing by an artist he liked, to
a few parties. He didn't go into any details except to slip in the fact
that he had gone with John or Neil or Mike. The idea seemed to be “I went
out with the guys and it was OK but it wasn't like I had a great time so
don't worry.”
I just smiled to myself and edited my social life reports along the same
lines. “I went to a party with Sandy and left early because I had to work
the next day.” It didn't seem necessary or wise to include the fact that
some guy had been after me all night and I finally had to sneak out to get
away from him. I tried hard not to wonder what Paul was editing out.
Aside from the album, taking care of his money seemed to be taking up a lot
of his time. He said something about a meeting with investment advisors who
were encouraging him to make real estate investments and said he would
probably have to do it even though being a landlord didn't appeal to him at
all. It was spend it or lose it. He was more interested in buying a couple
of paintings.
The Beatles contract with EMI was coming up for renewal as well. That was
going to be a headache. Everything was so complicated now compared to when
they had first signed. More to the point, Paul had been talking to Mick
Jagger and found out that the Stones were making a lot more money than they
were even though they sold fewer records and albums than the Beatles. He
was going to hold out for a hell of a lot more than the pennies per record
they were getting now and he wanted a percentage, not a set rate, because
the price of records and albums was climbing.
My finances changed too. My bank statement arrived with a $500 deposit
added, one I certainly hadn't made. The bank told me it came from a London
bank. I hadn't heard anything from Tony Barrow about selling my articles to
more magazines and doubted that he had. My articles were all old news now
and couldn't possibly have added up to that much anyway. I called Paul and
he admitted to having sent it. We spent a long time going around and around
about it on a collect transatlantic call I couldn't have begun to pay for.
Paul was reasonable, understanding but downright unmovable on the subject.
He didn't want me worrying about money. That was daft when he could afford
anything I wanted. I needed to buy clothes for my trip to England as I
would be photographed continually there. I should buy new luggage. I
couldn't borrow Mom's or my roommates when I left for England in June.
Point by point he wore me down and by the time I hung up I had agreed to
everything he wanted.
Before I could even begin to spend all that money, the next month's
statement arrived and with it another deposit. There was no point in
arguing with him. Besides, I loved the leather jacket and boots I bought.
In between talk of money and music, he told me he loved me, missed me,
couldn't wait to see me again. He made plans to spend a week around
Valentine's Day with me. Unfortunately, as that day came closer, he had to
delay it for another week. One of the tracks was going to use a full
symphony orchestra and the only time they could get them was that week. He
called halfway through that week, bursting with excitement about what they
were doing, talking non-stop for several minutes about how he was having
trouble explaining to George Martin what he and John wanted, how the
musicians themselves reacted, how they planned to put it all together,
ideas he had for other songs and how all the people who were saying the
Beatles were has-beens were going to have to eat their words when this
album came out!
When I finally burst out laughing at his monologue, he stopped. “Sorry,
love,” he laughed. “It is just so crazy here.”
"At least you aren't pining away with loneliness.”
“Not when I'm working, but when I go home it's a different story. I can't
wait until you are here with me. It's daft—you were hardly at my house at
all, but I miss having you there.”
“I know what you mean. Being there with you is all I think about.”
“I come home and wish you were there to have dinner with me. I think about
having you with me all evening. Washing up dishes, darning socks while you
watch the telly with me.”
“Wait a minute. I think you are missing Mrs. Grady!” I laughed.
“I don't think about making love to her. Or waking up in the morning with
her in my arms. Or soaking in the tub with her. Or undressing her on the
sofa in the music room. Wait. I take that back. One day I did think about
it! Playboy centerfolds are getting old. I need you, girl. This is getting
desperate!”
Not desperate enough apparently. When I said “Only another nine days,” he
left a silence long enough for me to know he wasn't coming.
“There's a problem, Tess. It's the album cover. We've got to get a decision
made on it. We have some ideas on what we want to do, but we've got to find
someone to design it. Also, the EMI people want a preliminary meeting on
the new contract. I'm sorry, love. I'm going to have to put it off another
week.”
“Oh.” I was so disappointed it took a few seconds to get out the required
“I wish you could come, but if you have put it off for a bit, it's OK.”
“No it isn't, but I have to be here. I am sorry.”
“I understand. Really, Paul. It will only be another week.”
We talked a little longer, and while we talked I pulled my calendar out of
my purse to check and see how much rearranging I would need to do with my
work schedule. This change in plans would put our week together smack on
top of midterms. I was going to have to study extra diligently to make sure
I didn't need to do any last-minute cramming. I was about to put the
calendar away when I realized there was another reason that week would be
bad.
“Oh, damn,” I said interrupting something Paul was saying.
“What?”
“Not that week.”
“What's wrong?”
“Hang on,” I said, stretching the phone cord to its limit to get to the
medicine cabinet in the bathroom. I got out my little round pill pack and
counted out the days. Damn.
“Don't bother coming until that Wednesday,” I told him. “You won't get no
satisfaction.”
He started to laugh. “That's not the only reason I want to be with you,
sweetheart.”
I pushed the bathroom door shut. “We'll go nuts if we can't do it. I don't
want you to be here if I can't make love to you!”
“OK. Wednesday then. I'll stay a week and a half if I possibly can.”
“Four days and I'll have you begging to be allowed to leave.”
“Promise?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Maybe I should just take the next plane.”
“Better yet.” The conversation deteriorated from there into transatlantic
phone sex. Maybe guys enjoy that, but all it did was make me miserably,
achingly uncomfortable.
Valentine's Day arrived. Paul sent roses and called that evening to
apologize one more time for not being there. John called. I hadn't talked
to him since he had called at Christmas time. He sounded hesitant, as if he
wasn't sure I wanted to hear from him, but I was thrilled and we were
quickly back to harassing each other. “Do you always call other women on
Valentine's Day?” I asked him.
“Only the special ones,” he said, sweetly, “and the ones who still lust
after me even when they have Paul!”
“I do not!”
“He says you weren't thrilled to hear Cyn and I were back together.”
“Out of sympathy for poor Cyn! She put in her years keeping you in line.
Someone else should get stuck with you next!”
He laughed at that and I asked bluntly why he had gone back. “It isn’t just
to keep other things quiet, is it?”
He laughed. “You’re lurid past is safe, Luv.” He talked about hating living
in a flat on his own and how he hated waking up alone in the middle of the
night, hating the women who came after him with one eye on his Rolls Royce
and the other on the lookout for a reporter to charm. Worst of all was how
Julian was acting shy when he saw him, as if he were a stranger. John also
mentioned Tara's death a couple of times. I didn't think he was close to
him, but it seemed to have upset him. I wondered if somehow it hadn't
contributed to his decision to go back to Cyn.
By the time we went on to talk of other things, I knew that although I was
thankfully wrong about the main reason he had gone back to Cyn, I was
probably right about the chances of it lasting.
Brenda went out with Mark and came home with a diamond ring on her finger.
She woke Sandy and me up to show us, and we all cried and laughed and
toasted her with orange juice. She gave all the details of how he had taken
her out for dinner at a fancy restaurant and then got down on one knee
right there in the restaurant. Sweating and stuttering, he proposed, she
said yes and the other diners applauded. The waiter brought champagne and
everyone toasted them. It was romantic enough even for Sandy.
They were going to be married in the Lutheran church. He knew his parents
were going to have a fit, but he didn't care that much himself so it didn't
make sense to have Brenda change churches. She was willing to join the
Catholic Church if that was absolutely the only way, but, if asked, she
would have to admit that it would be in name only. She didn't believe she
would ever really feel Catholic, but, tonight in the rush of excitement,
none of that mattered. There was a wedding to plan.
They had decided on a September wedding. By then they both would have had a
chance to get started in their new jobs. Mark was interviewing with IBM and
Honeywell, so she would find something in the Twin Cities. Her sister would
be the maid of honor, Sandy and I and Mark's sister would be bridesmaids.
Beyond that, she wasn't sure of anything, but in no time Sandy had helped
her decide what kind of dress she wanted and that the bridesmaids would
wear blue. The cake would be heart shaped, the reception and dance at the
country club, her aunt would make the mints, and she would carry white
roses with blue ribbons.
While she and Sandy made plans, I realized I might not be able to be at her
wedding. Once I got a job, it would be hard to get a week off to fly home
for the wedding, and I couldn't imagine making the trip in less than a
week. I hated to spoil her mood, but it was better to talk about it now
than after she had the whole wedding planned in her head. I suggested that
maybe she had better not plan on me. I'd be there if at all possible, but
it would be best to select another bridesmaid. She was adamant. I would go
through the whole process of getting a dress before I left for England. If
it turned out that I couldn't come back, then there would simply be one
less bride's maid. That would mean cutting a groomsman too, but if they
knew ahead of time that might happen, they would understand. Guys hated
being in weddings in the first place so they would probably fight over who
got to drop out.
That settled, we sat up way too late talking about the wedding. When we got
around to what Sandy and I wanted for our weddings, Sandy, of course,
already had a June wedding planned, right down to the music to be played.
All that needed to be filled in was the groom's name and related variables.
When they asked me, I said I had no idea. If Paul and I got married
someday, a big wedding would be impossible with family on both sides of the
Atlantic. It would be a nightmare with the fans and the press if the
Beatles were still big news by then.
Brenda and Sandy were looking at me with dismay. I assumed it was because I
couldn't have a big wedding, but Sandy blurted out, “What do you mean,
‘if”? You said he wanted to get married and have kids.”
“He does, someday, but we aren’t talking about getting married. We aren’t
at that point. We haven't spent that much time together. I mean it's been
six months since I met him but we have only spent about six weeks
together.”
“Gee,” Sandy said, looking at me uncertainly. “I thought you guys had
talked about it. I mean, after all, you are sleeping with him and you are
going to England. I didn't think you would do that unless... " she stopped,
embarrassed.
“I know. Pretty far out. I never thought I'd do this either.”
“But you haven't talked about getting married?”
“Only sort of.”
“How do you sort of talk about getting married?” Sandy asked.
Brenda laughed and answered for me. “It is weird, but you do. You talk
about the future and find yourself saying “we”. You never say the “M” word,
but somehow you know it is on his mind. Right, Terry?”
“Exactly.”
Sandy looked bewildered.
“You just kind of talk around it because it just isn't time yet,” I said.
“You need time to get to know him better but you want to let him know that
you are thinking about it even if you aren't ready to seriously discuss
it.”
Brenda said, “It's gets harder once you feel sure you want to marry him
because you want to let him know you want him to pop the question, but you
don't want to push him and you still want it to be kind of a surprise when
he does.”
“It's amazing how many times you can tell each other “I love you” without
talking about the future,” I said with a laugh. “When I was in England,
Paul and I were even talking about fixing it so I could stay but we never
seemed to talk about getting married. Just about ‘being together.' We still
don't. It is always ‘Once we are together.'”
Brenda and Sandy looked at each other. There was an awkward silence before
Brenda said, “Terry, are you sure he is thinking along the same lines you
are? Maybe he is just talking about living together indefinitely.”
“Yes, I'm pretty sure,” I said. “The first night he was here he said his
intentions were honorable, that I knew what he wanted—and I do know. He
told me when I interviewed him that he wanted to be married and raising a
family five years from now.”
“Ooooh—” Sandy began winding up but I cut her off.
“The way he said it, the way he looked at me, I knew what he meant. He was
trying to tell me he hoped it would work out and if it did he would ask me
to marry him.” I shrugged and sighed. “I'd marry him tomorrow if he asked,
but I'm not sure he is ready. He wants to be sure. He was engaged before
and that fell apart. He needs to take time. I guess I should, too. You
can't marry somebody just because you love them. It isn't that easy.”
“Well, I wouldn't know,” Sandy said. “I am always falling in love with some
new guy, but it never goes from ‘falling' to ‘being.' It just seems like if
I could get past that it would have to be right to get married. How can you
be in love and not want to get married?”
Sandy and Brenda went on talking about whether being in love was enough to
get married on. Part of me was listening but another part had slid away to
a weekend in California. To John. As soon as I had said the words “just
because you love them,” he was suddenly in my heart. I realized then how
much I had loved him. Still loved him. The difference between what I felt
for him and what I felt for Paul was in knowing I couldn't make a life with
him. It was what had kept me from letting go and loving him the way I loved
Paul. It was what had made it sex and not passion, friendship and regret,
not love and a future. My heart had known instinctively which man was right
for me and said goodbye to John the night Paul came back into my life.
“Terry?” Brenda was calling me back, looking at me with concern.
I pushed John out of my mind and reached out to hug Sandy. “You'll find a
guy one of these days, fall head over heels in love and you'll know it is
right—and I'll be coming back for another wedding.”
The rest of February crawled by and it was cold and miserable outside and
in my heart. I missed Paul so much and worried that something would come up
again and delay his visit one more time. Sandy had met a new guy and was
busy trying to fall in love yet again. Brenda was making wedding plans.
John and Cyn were back together. All I had was a voice on the phone.
My nights were punctuated with dreams that Paul was calling saying he had
to delay his visit again and again, and the excuses got weaker and weaker.
Mrs. Berghoff continued to darken my days. Mom continued to call and bring
a spot of gloom to my evenings. If that weren’t enough to make February as
bleak as its reputation, there were my phone conversations with Paul.
Through January he had been upbeat, wrapped up in recording, missing me,
but reasonably content. As February rolled in I began to hear a disturbing
nuance. He talked more about wishing I were there with him and the tone
deteriorated from simple longing to something worse. He wasn’t demanding I
come to him, wasn’t really complaining even. He just began to sound down
and lonely.
On the nights when he called just after getting home from a recording
session it was less noticeable than when he had been on his own for the
day. On those nights he didn’t want to hang up. Long after my roommates had
gone to bed, I would be sitting in the corner of the cold, dark kitchen
talking to him. I sat on the floor bundled up in a quilt, alternately
barbecuing my feet over the furnace vent in the floor then shivering as the
furnace cycled on and off. Outside the window, the snow swirled under the
streetlights in gusts of frigid wind. In that quiet night, his voice on the
phone was warm and he seemed so close. As February dragged on, more and
more of those calls ended with a bleak and too heartfelt “I wish you were
here with me.”
Anne showed up on my doorstep one Friday evening. I was astonished when I
answered the door. She was not allowed to drive to Minneapolis by herself,
but there she was. “I have something I thought you should see, so I told
Mom and Dad I was spending the night at Monica's,” she said. “Here, carry
this up. I have to get the screen out of the car.” She handed me Steve's
movie projector.
She had brought the movies Steve had taken over Christmas. I was happy to
get a chance to see them without having to go to Mom and Dad's, but still a
little puzzled as to why Anne placed so much importance on them. She had
never shown any signs of telepathy,
so I didn't think it was a matter of knowing how much I was missing Paul
and bringing me the movies so I could see the film of us together.
We hurriedly made popcorn and set up the projector so that Sandy and Brenda
could see the movies before they left on their dates. Anne threaded the
film and there was the Martin Family Christmas, 1966. The tree, the
presents, Jenny eating Christmas cookies at the table slid past. Then there
was film of Paul at the piano with Jenny. For a moment I had an odd
sensation of seeing Beatle Paul on the screen and waiting for Ringo or one
of the others to join him. Paul on film was automatically the famous Paul
McCartney, Beatle. It took a moment to make the transition from Beatle to
my Paul. Then the film moved on to Mom and me making the pumpkin pie, Paul
putting together the jigsaw puzzle with my sisters, all of us opening
gifts, Paul admiring Jenny's Barbie doll, and so on.
I sat through the short film, aching for Paul, wanting to wind back time
instead of film so I could touch him, hear his voice. At the end of it, I
started to thank Anne for bringing it. “I've been missing him so much—” I
started to say.
“Hold on, we haven't gotten to the good stuff yet.” She put the second reel
of film into the projector and hit the switch. The Martin Family and guest
were sitting down to Christmas Dinner. The camera scanned the table, set
with the good china and silver and loaded with food, then moved around the
table giving each person an opportunity to cringe for the camera. Jenny
hammed it up, Mom scurried out to get some missing bit of the feast, Kay
just looked like she wished the camera would move on, and Paul, used to
being on camera, simply smiled for the camera and went back to his
conversation with Dad. There were several more minutes of Christmas dinner,
including the dog waiting patiently at Jenny's side for handouts. Had it
not been for Paul's presence this little bit of film would be doomed to be
consigned to the attic along with a million other Christmas dinner home
movies. Then suddenly the scene changed to outdoors.
I hadn't realized Steve had done any filming outside on Christmas Day. In
those days, filming generally involved the glare of a huge, hot spotlight
assuring that there was no such thing as sneaking up on someone, but with
the brightness of the sun on the snow the spotlight wasn't necessary and
Paul and I never knew Steve was filming. We had gone out with my sisters to
feed the horses and were down at the pasture leaning on the fence and
feeding them apples. Steve had come up behind us and started filming. Paul
and I weren't doing anything but talking and so Steve panned over to Rose
who was getting up on the horse with a helping hand from Anne. After a few
minutes of them not doing anything film-worthy, Steve came back to Paul and
me just in time to catch Paul smiling down at me as I said something. It
wasn't a close-up and you really couldn't see much of our faces since Steve
was filming from behind us, but you could see Paul reach up and touch my
face with the back of his fingers, just brushing my cheek. Then he put his
arm around my shoulders and hugged me to him, dropping a kiss on the top of
my head. He held that position for a moment, making it somehow so much more
than a kiss, then relaxed his arm and turned away again to look at the
horses. The film ended there, the screen flickering and then going white as
the film wap-wapped on the reel. Anne shut off the projector.
“Oooohhh,” said Sandy.
“Aaaahhh,” said Brenda.
I sniffled, missing Paul so badly.
“That is when things got interesting,” Anne said.
I looked at her in bewilderment. I didn't recall anything of interest
happening after that.
“What happened?” Sandy asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “We walked back to the house and had some of the pie we
had been too full to eat earlier.”
“That's what happened on Christmas Day. The interesting stuff happened last
weekend when Steve brought the movies down for Mom and Dad to see. Mom
watched that part and started to cry.”
“Oh, geez,” I said.
“It gets better,” Anne said. “Then Mom said ‘See! I told you he loves her.
It's as plain as day when he looks at her!'” and Dad said. ‘I know! I know.
That’s what is making this so hard! They do love each other, but that
doesn't mean this is a good thing!' So Mom said, ‘Well, you can't tell her
that. She has to figure it out for herself. I just hope she does it before
she takes off for England with him.' Dad said ‘She won't. She is in love.
All we can do is hope he loves her enough to keep away from the drugs and
be a decent husband.' That's when Mom said ‘That's it then? We just let
this happen?' and Dad said, ‘I guess so.'”
I listened to this report with astonishment, trying to sort out whether it
was good news or bad.
Anne put it in perspective for me. “Maybe them ‘just letting it happen'
isn't quite what you hoped for Terry, but if you had been around to hear
the crazy ideas about making you move back home and forbidding you to see
him, locking you in your room, sending you off to live with relatives so he
couldn't find you, this is a big improvement!”
It was nearly 4:00 a.m. in London and Paul had just gone to bed when I
called. He didn't mind at all.