Only the lonely, know the way I feel tonight…
The rich voice of Roy Orbison filled the room with his signature song. The lyrics hit home deeply with Jack Hanson, who thought wryly that he knew the feeling all too well. He was sitting, listening to the radio playing hits from the 60s, in his favorite chair, an overstuffed brown leather recliner in his favorite room, the den at the back of the house where he could hear the sounds from the nearby Narragansett Bay.
At sixty-two, he still considered himself to be late middle age. He took care of himself physically, maintaining around 190 lbs. on his 6’1” frame. He still had his hair, cropped short so he did not have to mess with it, but nothing was receding in that area. It was still mostly brown with only hints of grey showing at the temples. It was with his emotions where he lacked stability. He was becoming more and more lonely and withdrawn with each year that passed since Elaine had gone.
Elaine, his wife of twenty-two years, had fought the cancer invading her ovaries for almost two years, before it had finally defeated her best efforts. It had seemed so unfair, this stealthy disease that did not have the relatively easy to spot symptoms of its more well-known counterpart in breasts. It had already gotten its tendrils of destruction too far into her body before it was detected. Her symptoms had been misdiagnosed as something else several times, which was not uncommon with that form of cancer. Far fewer people knew about ovarian cancer or of the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition than the Susan B Komen. People just were not aware of how to recognize the tell tell signs of the disease on their own.
She had endured the intense physical pain and the emotional drag created by the knowledge that she was going to lose this battle, while he had dealt with the anguish of knowing how much she stoically suffered and being unable as her protector to make it all better.
Memories haunted him of the times when her sharp intake of breath, accompanied by the crease of her brows as she looked down momentarily, and sometimes although rarely, punctuated by a quiet, suppressed moan, as she fought to control the pain that ravaged her existence in those last months. She tried hard to shield him from the depression that she knew he dealt with over the agony she endured. Life was NOT good for anyone during those days.
After she had finally lost the battle, there were the usual crowd of well-meaning friends and relatives to tell him that they were there for him. The number of people who had known her and grieved her passing was far larger than most such groups, but he was only aware of this months later. His days at that time were a blur of agony and loss, knowing that the light that had guided his life was forever extinguished.
The huge press of mourners gave way within a few days to a steady stream of casseroles and condolences over the following weeks, to eventually settle down into the occasional offer to get back in the saddle, as the years dragged on. There was seemingly no end to the parade of friends offering the names of other friends, or divorcees/widows offering homemade goods with benefits.
He had been polite but firm in his refusals, a fact that he was finally beginning to regret.
Time went by slowly for someone who’s days and nights were constantly interrupted with memories. The sight of a certain kind of flower would precipitate visions of Elaine gathering them into a vase to place on the sunny sill over the kitchen sink. Driving by a local restaurant that she had really liked surfaced memories of their time eating and laughing together. Things that they had so enjoyed doing together no longer held any appeal. Apparently, it was sharing the experience with her, more than the experience itself that had been desirable. There were a hundred locations in their hometown of Warwick, Rhode Island, that reminded him of her and what he now would never have again.
At least the winters were chilly enough and the weather frequently damp enough that he could avoid getting out of the house too often. The summers were harder. The waters of the Bay, just outside his back door called to him. Sailing, swimming and just lounging about listening to the seashore sounds had always been a big part of their lives.
Now, here was Jack in his den on his favorite recliner, on a cloudy, damp morning in mid-September, listening to Roy Orbison on the radio, his Yorkie, Clarence dozing on his lap. It occurred to him that he had become 'That Old Man'. Elaine had been gone for twelve years now, and life was finally starting to intrude on his consciousness.
“Clarence, do you think I’ve become crotchety?” he asked his dog. His voice was raspy with lack of use. He rarely spoke to anyone but Clarence.
Hearing Jack’s voice, Clarence raised his ears, and then his head in response, as if waiting for his human to go on.
Jack continued the conversation with, “I think you may be right. I have become quite the dull fuddy duddy.”
Clarence, who was doing his usual stellar job of quietly upholding his end of these exchanges, just stared at his human with those huge expressive brown eyes, as if agreeing wholeheartedly and urging the man to go on.
Jack did not actually hear Messenger Erik as he continued whispering in his ear, but he did have the resulting thoughts.
“I need to get out more,” Jack continued, and rose from the chair, easing the dog into the place he had just vacated on the cushion. Clarence immediately took the proffered opportunity, turning in two quick circles and plopping down into the warm spot, his chin resting between his paws, his eyelids drooping closed.
Jack took a beach towel with him and decided to bask in the warm rays of the sunshine in his backyard. The sounds of the bay would be relaxing.
Messenger Erik, who was an ethereal being who sometimes visited Jack, whispered in his ear that the attractive lady about his age walking along the shoreline trail, certainly seemed to think so. Jack glanced casually in her direction, not noting much more at this distance than the way the short black hair bounced in the breeze.
* * *
Somewhere across town, Diane Drummond had also been listening to the same radio station, WWRI 105.1 FM, thinking about how true Roy Orbison’s lyrics were. She was sitting at her kitchen table, the pieces of a partially assembled jigsaw puzzle before her, as she sipped her Earl Grey tea. She was spending more time looking out the window than she did on where the next piece of the puzzle should be placed.
At sixty years old, she was still enjoying a healthy life. She had never been accused of being pretty, but she was not ugly either. Her 112 lbs. fitted her 5’2” body nicely. Yes, it was true that she colored the grey out of her short black hair, which curved to a chin length French bob cut, but this was not really aging, merely vanity. She definitely did not think that she was frumpy or matronly, but she had never had much luck in the male department.
She had had many failed relationships with less than satisfying partners. Burnt too many times and tired of trying, she had given up on love years ago. It did not seem that it was possible for her to attract a good man. Everyone she had ever dated had ended up being a total Loser. Some had lasted longer than others, but they had all showed their true interests, or lack thereof, eventually. They liked her bed. They liked her cooking. They liked her apartment. They did not want a wife.
She had lost count of how many ‘They’ were. It did not matter. She had given up on trying to find happiness in that direction. Roy was right! Only the lonely knew how her life was going.
Messenger Françoise, another invisible being, was watching Diane, as she frequently did. She did not like it that a woman with so much goodness in her could always make such bad choices in her relationships. She was not supposed to interfere in the life of her bonded human unless the need were great. She decided that Diane’s need for love in her life qualified as ‘great’ and hoped that it would be judged so by the Review Council later.
Not wanting to attack the problem directly, thus inviting resistance, Françoise started on a different tack. Slipping up near Diane, she whispered in her ear, ‘Why do you not get out? You could walk the shore down the street and feel the fresh breeze.’
This thought occurred to Diane as she sat reading her new book, ‘None of This Is True’ by Lisa Jewell. It seemed a little unusual that she should suddenly think such a thing, especially at this time. Her book was very good. Returning to the idea of a walk, she noticed that the sky was overcast but not cold. It was a little damp, but maybe that would burn off if the clouds lifted. She thought that maybe she should go the couple of blocks to her favorite walking paths at Rocky Point State Park. She could then choose the wooded paths or the beach path depending on the weather.
She decided to walk to the park, rather than drive, since it was so close. When she got to Rocky Point, the walk had warmed her enough that she decided that she would continue down the path at the water’s edge. She loved to watch the antics of the Killdeer gliding smoothly along on their thin legs, moving in and out between the Gulls and Terns. Her phone was in her hand because she had hoped to get a picture of a Brant or a Mule Swan, but she had only seen the Canada Geese in that habitat.
As she strolled along the shoreline path, the gentle waving of the reeds growing at the water’s edge, combined with the quiet lapping of waves soothed her. The waves in the bay were nothing like their sea borne cousins which strike the shore of the Atlantic with such force.
Contentedly walking down the path, she exited the confines of the State Park and continued along in front of the houses of those lucky enough to own property right on the bay. Rhode Island was one of those states where all the beaches were public land, which is why the path continued through private and public land alike.
As she watched a gull gliding on the breeze, her eyes caught sight of a man at the first house taking the sun in his lawn chair facing the bay, but he seemed to pay no heed to the bird or the stranger walking by on the shore trail.
* * *
The next morning Jack was sitting in his lawn chair again, sipping his second cup of Lavazza coffee and shielding his eyes with his newspaper from the early rays of the sun bouncing off the bay.
Messenger Erik decided that it was time for Jack to reenter the human race. He whispered, ‘Some clam chowder for lunch would hit the spot.’
Jack lowered his paper and finished the last of his coffee as he let this thought bounce around his brain for a bit. Finally, he decided that he would visit Iggy’s Chowder House down by the Boardwalk for lunch. It was time for him to rejoin society again, and that would be just the place to do it, among the mixed crowd of tourists who had heard how good the food was and the locals who knew it to be true, he could be anonymous.
As he was opening the door to enter Iggy’s, he had to step back and hold the door for a lady by herself who was coming out at the same moment. Something about the short black-haired woman tugged at his memory. He was sure that he did not know who she was, but she seemed familiar.
For some reason, he found himself saying, ”Have a nice day!” It surprised him, since it was not at all like him to speak to a stranger like that these days.
“You too!” the lady responded with a bright smile as she passed by.
Both Messenger Erik and Messenger Françoise whispered into their respective charge’s ears, ‘That was nice.’
A few seconds later, both Jack and Diane caught each other turning to get a second look. Diane broke the eye contact first, glancing down with a secret smile playing on her lips, as Françoise whispered, ‘You are not dead yet!’
Jack continued into the restaurant. Thoughts of the unknown but becoming more familiar woman vying for attention with the memory he had of Iggy’s chowder. It was the creamy New England style, not the Boston kind. It had been too long since he had eaten any of it.
* * *
When he came out an hour later feeling totally satisfied with his lunch choice, Jack decided to extend his day on the town by walking around the corner to Oakland Beach. He heard the water calling again.
He took off his Docksides and held one in each hand, to experience the warm sand between his toes. Two children wrestling a kite caught his attention as he walked out onto one of the piles of broken granite rocks that the town used to create jetties out into the bay. The sound of youthful exuberance was refreshing to his scarred psyche.
A flash of light caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, causing him to turn.
* * *
At the same time, Diane was enjoying the breeze blowing her hair back from her face at the end of the jetty that she was standing on. The day had been good. She always enjoyed the area around Iggy’s. The seafood was great. The ice cream at Iggy’s other shop was above average and the bay was right there to indulge.
A flash of light glinted off something and she turned to see what it was.
* * *
Both Messengers were together on the jetty watching over their humans, who were each just a few feet away on either side. They decided that it was time to give the two lonely people a push. Grasping hands, they both flashed simultaneously for an instant and then disappeared immediately.
When Diane saw the man standing there that she had recently passed at Iggy’s, she smiled broadly. Jack also recognized the lady from before and his hand came up of its own volition in a friendly wave.
“Are you stalking me?” Diane asked him in an obviously jesting tone, tilting her head playfully.
“No, but I’m starting to think that maybe I would like to,” Jack responded, smiling also.
Messengers Erik and Françoise shared some satisfying thoughts in their near instantaneous, unspoken method of communication about their successful mission.
It seemed that Roy Orbison’s ballad about loneliness was about to be replaced with a new Jack and Diane song, but one not at all like the John Mellencamp version!
