The Story Begins Page 24

  “No you don’t!” remonstrated Lydia, turning to face her as though to underscore her words with a cold stare.

  Cassandra acquiesced. “Okay, I don’t,” she said docilely, trying not to cry.

  “Have either of you heard any of what I just finished explaining?” asked Penelope, puffing as she let herself fall against the back of her seat. “Girls! Sweethearts! This is a part of life. You may not know it now or even understand it just yet, but to try and stop nature from taking its course would make you both very unhappy sooner or later. Do you cherish your friendship?” Not that the answer was a secret.

  “Of course we do. You know that we do, Mommy,” said Cassandra, her intonation and mannerism that of a child come of age, just awakening to, and quite befuddled by, life and the ways of the world.

  “Yes, of course I do, sweetie. Now tell me, Lydia, if your father and I, and Cassandra’s mommy and daddy as well, had chosen to always just be with our friends and had never met each other and gotten married, what do you suppose would have been of your friendship now, sweetheart?”

  “Well, we wouldn’t be here so it couldn’t have been,” Lydia replied, with a facial expression that seemed to indicate that such an answer could not have been any more obvious.

  Seeing her expression her mother smiled. “So are you happy that your mommies and daddies did not just hang out with our own friends, but instead chose to meet then get married and so brought you both into the world?” she asked, pleased that she could appeal to both the rational and emotional aspects of their respective personalities.

  “Yes,” said Lydia.

  “Would it not be even more wonderful if you two were to have children and they became as close as you two are?” Penelope asked, believing that she was succeeding in convincing the girls, more so Lydia, to see reason.

  “That would really be wonderful,” Cassandra said excitedly while she still sought to stifle the urge to cry.

  “Yes, that would be the best!” Lydia agreed. “Okay, I forgive you, Cassandra,” she said, taking her darling friend by the hand.

  “Thank you. I’m so sorry. I really am.”

  Both girls began to cry.

  Maybe I haven’t quite gotten my point across just yet, thought Penelope; she was patient and understanding but thought perhaps she need be a little firmer. “Lydia, you’re being stubborn!” she said. “There isn’t anything to forgive. Cassandra has done you no wrong, love. And Cassandra, there isn’t anything to apologize for. Okay, angels?”

  “Okay. I’m sorry for making you feel bad, Cassandra,” apologized Lydia.

  “And I’m sorry for…” Cassandra started. The forthcoming apology was to remain unfinished for the look Penelope cast Cassandra effectively made the latter forego that which would have been an apology unfounded. Lydia conceded. They hugged.

  Penelope smiled. She thought of her sweet girls and their greater circle of friends. As children and even unto adulthood, they had always shared the same friends, some of whom dated, yet that had never affected the girls in the least. Though Penelope couldn’t even begin to fathom the bond shared by the twain, she couldn’t have been any more certain that it was one unparalleled, the strength of which had never been, possibly could never be, extended beyond the pair to anyone else. She understood that such an extraordinary affinity was that which had impelled Lydia to react as she had; jealousy, she knew, is quite natural, its measure proportional to the measure accorded to the affinity attached. Such was also the reason Cassandra had no qualms about foregoing he who might yet prove to be the love of her life so that Lydia may be happy.

  Penelope was pleased that her words reassured them that nothing at all was lost; rather this was life’s means of showing them that it had so much more to bestow. This, she believed, was the onset of a greater realization, understanding, and appreciation of life for the girls.

  The fact that Lydia and Cassandra were now finally growing up in other aspects of life made Penelope very proud of the girls. She was sure that Cassandra hadn’t told her own mother yet, for had she done so, Dorothy, Cassandra’s mother, surely wouldn’t have forgotten to share the news with her. Penelope began to reminisce:

  ~

  As much as both mothers had been proud of, and very much amazed by, the friendship shared by the pair, often had they wondered and conversed between themselves if ever the girls would become conscious that their no-less-than divine relationship was but one facet of the much more that life could give.

  In one another had both mothers confided their hopes that college would awaken the girls to the world beyond the naiveté with which they still regarded life. If fate failed to play a role in their daughters’ lives, their mothers were fairly certain that the girls would have been perfectly content to move back into an apartment building together where, if they were not to share one, their respective apartments were bound to be adjacent to each other. Again were they likely to share conversations into the early hours of the morning. What their conversations might have entailed neither mother could imagine; they were very much of the conviction that boys were unlikely to ever be a topic though.

  Never had the girls any inkling that their mothers were very aware of their very late window prattling. However, rather than put an end to it, because neither child had ever failed to awaken to the alarm, ready themselves for school, and were acutely focused in class, both mothers had chosen to let their girls carry on as though nothing were out of the ordinary. They also thought it sweet.

  Antecedent to Cassandra’s declaration, neither mother was sure if they ought to have been troubled concerning their girls, for even though now off to college, both had kept every single childhood doll and tea set into the present, and once in a while actually played with them.

  Now it seemed as though fate would fail neither Penelope nor Dorothy.

  ~

  Awaking from her reverie, Penelope said, “Now that that’s been taken care of, would you care to share how and when this wonderful meeting happened, mi amor?”

  Cassandra was happy to oblige. “As sweet as he was,” Cassandra said, having recounted the tale while folding and placing clothing on the bed, “I really had no intention of calling him and took his number only so that I could leave.” She was still for a moment and very pensive. “But you know what was really weird?”

  “Que?” Lydia asked while placing some folded clothes into a drawer.

  “As much as I wanted to leave, I seemed to be glued to where I stood. And now that I think about it… it was as if, unless I took his phone number, I wasn’t going to be going anywhere. I know it sounds strange – and it is – but it really seems to have been that way,” she said, her face betraying perplexity. “Anyway, after I got home I was about to delete his number when I realized that such a thing would not have been nice to do. I’d feel awful if anyone had given me the slightest indication that they’d call but then never did. I’d rather the person not have taken my number in the first place because then I wouldn’t be a slave to hope, which can be as wickedly cruel a curse as it can be a blessing. So I thought to call him and explain that I only took his number so that I may leave and that he may not keep hoping or expecting.”

  “That was very considerate of you, sweetie. Sounds like you didn’t call though,” Lydia’s mom said while looking into her daughter’s closet, curious as to what, if any, clothing she might have had at her daughter’s apartment.

  “No, I didn’t. I guess as nice as he seemed, I still didn’t really want to call him, even to tell him what I just explained.”

  “Though I think that you should give him a chance,” suggested Penelope, “I’m curious regarding why you haven’t deleted his number yet then.”

  “Honestly, Mommy, I don’t know. There seems to be something preventing my doing so. I’m probably sounding stranger each time I say something but it really did, or does, seem to be that way.”

  “Some would interpret that as being the hand of fate, or destiny, sweetie. And who’s to say
that it isn’t?” said Penelope.

  “I don’t know, Mama… I’ve never dated before and I’d be very silly to date, of all people, an American. Oddly enough though, I do like him, I think – and I guess that also has something to do with me not deleting his number.”

  “Love, the world is full of wonderful things and it isn’t always that they come easy or direct, if ever. I’m not telling you what to do but I think your mother would agree with me that sometimes things happen for a reason. Even if something were not to work out the first time, perhaps a failing might be what it takes to get to where what you want or need really is. A blessing in disguise is the expression.”

  “But, Mom, we know quite a few girls who have had their hearts broken by American soldiers who have left,” contended Lydia, who was standing beside her mother at the wardrobe, putting up the last of her clothes.

  “And I’m sure that there are quite a few American soldiers who have gone back with the girl that they met while here or perhaps, not wanting the woman they love to leave all that she knows behind, might have left the army so they could both stay and be together here,” observed her mother. “Granted, the number of broken hearts likely exceeds the tales with happy endings, still it does not hurt to try. Just be clever about it. How could we ever know what fate might have in store for us but it never came to pass because fear was allowed to take control?” asked Penelope.

  “You’re right, Mammy. Can’t argue with wisdom,” Cassandra acknowledged, comfortably lying on the bed, hugging a pillow.

  Lydia’s mother looked at her watch. “Looks like we’ll be catching the very last show,” she said as she reached for a pair of black jeans and a white blouse. “Are we almost ready?” she asked as she walked over to the bathroom.

  The girls looked at each other then at her.

  “Mama, we’ve been ready ever since the laundry was done. We put the clothes away only to pass time while we waited on you,” Cassandra teased.

  She stopped half way to the bathroom. “Okay, just give me a few more minutes. I’ve decided not to go with the jeans. Let’s see what else I have in there,” she said, returning to the cupboard.

  Lydia lay in bed beside Cassandra while they waited for her mother. “So I’m still not clear. Will you call him at some point or not?” she asked Cassandra.

  “No.”

  “Why not? You did say that you like him, right?”

  “Yes… I think I do. I don’t know why but I think I do. I don’t even know him.”

  “Of course you don’t; you just met. People that just meet don’t all of a sudden know each other, love. You’re going to have to call him sooner or later, if for no other reason than because you’d hate it if it were you on the receiving end of a call that never came. The sooner you do call him, the sooner you can end it, or begin to see where it leads to.”

  “You’re right.”

  “So when?”

  “It’s the boy that’s supposed to call the girl,” Cassandra complained.

  “I think that was the idea. Remember he did want your number!” Lydia reminded her. “I’m sure he would have called had he had your number. Not to sound selfish but the longer you put off calling him, the more I’ll have you to myself, so I’ve no real complaints,” Lydia said, smiling.

  “And I love you too,” Cassandra said, taking her by the hand.

  “Mommy, are you ready yet?” Lydia shouted, hoping that her mother heard her; though the bathroom was adjacent to the bedroom, her mother had the radio on the loud side.

  “Just about, sweetie!” responded her mother.

  22

  A Breakdown

  For one whose inner turmoil went unchecked thus setting him upon a path of self-destruction, Jaden still did very well with his soldiers. So great had his popularity grown that other company commanders in the Mannheim area, having heard of his reputation through their own troops, sought to invite him to visit with their own units in the hopes of giving their own lieutenants insight on how they might be better leaders. It wasn’t that their own lieutenants were particularly bad officers, rather Jaden’s leadership and care for his troops was something of a phenomenon and other officers wished to know what he did that made soldiers, some of whom didn’t even know him, regard him so well.

  Soldiers always spoke about their leaders, and the fact that troops who hadn’t even met him believed him to be a leader to be emulated based on no more than hearsay from peers, certainly did speak volumes on the young lieutenant’s behalf.

  Requests of visits by other units always placed him in an awkward position. Not that he particularly cared that Lieutenant Krappa could barely suffer his presence for no reason obvious to Jaden but he did not wish to give a wrong impression and further alienate others who might think that he believed himself to be above his peers. As far as he was concerned, he was merely being himself and being himself was what he’d fall back on so that he may excuse himself from having to oblige any such request. He hadn’t a strategy, the soldiers simply liked who he was, he’d explain. His personality wasn’t something that he could teach to others. Everybody had their own, he’d always say.

  It wasn’t often that he ate at the dining facility but when he did, there was always a crowd about him made up of soldiers from his company as well as troops from other units on Coleman Barracks who just liked him; their only affiliation with Jaden being that some of them knew the lieutenant’s own troops.

  Whereas this invoked even greater disdain from Lieutenant Krappa, it inspired even greater admiration in Captain Peterson. Unlike Krappa, Jaden never asked anything of his soldiers that he would not have done himself. Even when he needn’t be, he was always side by side with his soldiers when the day had to start earlier or end later than usual.

  The lieutenant’s façade that all was well with him was, indeed, very believable but all the while, through all the praises and accolades, Jaden’s anguish over Melanie had continued to tear away at his soul. He could not let her go. Anguish over her sent him spiraling into an abyss not many can recover from without help. Jaden, however, wasn’t one to ask for help. And because he was meticulous in all that he did, no one could have ever discerned that his was a troubled soul. The destruction of his psyche, perhaps even his soul, seemed certain.

  His drinking made it increasingly arduous to awake in the mornings; that he may offset this, he set up alarm clocks all over his apartment. Staggering the times they’d set off made certain that if he were to sleep through the initial few, one would eventually awaken him. This was his fail-safe method to ensure that he always rose with enough time to get cleaned and sobered up enough to keep the chaos within him well hidden.

  That which he did first every evening after getting home was set all his alarm clocks to start going off at 3:30 in the morning; the task was then followed by drinking until he passed out.

  He looked into his refrigerator one evening and became aware, for the first time, that he had more alcoholic beverages in there than anything else. He hadn’t noticed that his drinking had gradually but steadily increased over the past few months. He was unsure as to whether his depression had turned him into an alcoholic without him even realizing what had become of him. He didn’t believe that it had. How could he be an alcoholic when he could have dropped the habit whenever he wanted to? Or could he? His thoughts were as fog and he really wasn’t sure that he could. He chose to believe that he hadn’t become dependent.

  As obvious as it was that he did have a problem, he was adamant about not acknowledging that it really did exist.

  One evening, while sitting in bed watching television, he noticed that his bottle of vodka was empty. Intending to fetch something else to drink, he got out of bed, bottle clutched in his right hand, and started towards the kitchen. He staggered towards the living room; however, before he could even reach the bedroom door, he tripped over himself, falling face down. His nose was bleeding but he didn’t notice. He tried in vain to get up but his limbs seemed not to respond to his
brain’s messages. A tear trickled down his face.

  Now he remembered not only Melanie but also unpleasant memories of an unhappy childhood. He thought of his then manic-depressive mother and how her condition had been the reason for oft meaningless fights at home; how his father had always tried to help, being very patient and understanding. He thought of the then ever-present threat of divorce by his mother; he remembered how alone she had felt at times, and also the many separations which had forced him to spend time with relatives and all the planned family outings that had been disrupted even before the family had had a chance to set out. He also remembered the days his father had not a penny to his name, was drowning in debt, and could scarcely provide for the family. Such were the thoughts that overwhelmed him.

  The knowledge that all was now well with his family offered him no comfort; his soul’s affliction was without cure, he believed. And falling in love with one he could never have had only worsened his lot.

  “I cannot do this anymore!” he said, tears streaming down his face. “I may have suppressed my past and been able to convince the world that all is well but I know the truth, don’t I? I now drink that I may get through my days. I die slowly and that which I hold is the means,” he said, still trying but unable to even move enough to look at the empty bottle still held in his hand. “If You were real, my story would have been all too familiar as I am not the only one that has suffered misery. No! The world abounds with despair. DESPAIR!” he shouted.

  “Though countless are its faces, it is always known when it presents itself,” he continued, addressing God not as a real being but rather as a created concept designed by a few that they may manipulate the many. “We come, we are, and then we pass. Nothing of us ever preceded our being nor shall anything follow our demise. There is no design. We are nothing more than a fleeting occurrence, with our beginning probably the result of the interaction and reaction of preexisting matter in the universe,” he said, trying to roll over, having realized that breathing was laborious. I am not among the lucky ones I guess, he thought. “It’s just you and me, vodka, until you grant me rest,” he murmured, managing to bring the bottle to his lips only to remember that it was empty.