The Last Fling a Novel

The Last Fling A Novel Ronda Chervin 1 Copyright © 2003 by Ronda Chervin Cover credit: many thanks to Beverly Hall for allowing us to modify her beautiful photograph of Carla De Sola Eaton. 2 Dedicated to the widow saints. 3 4 Brainy Women OU WOMEN OVER FORTY,” THE WOMAN’S VOICE on the radio said, “only about 1 in 6 of you will find Ya husband. And for each academic degree you’ve earned, your chances go down. With a Ph.D. it’s about one in five hundred! The basic reason is that most men over forty want to marry young women. They don’t want to see their ever-aging bodies mirrored in the body of an aging wife. Those even more mature men you are attracted to, over fifty, are looking to recover their youth by dating thirty-year old’s!” “And, Dr. Rogers,” came the modulated voice of the female interviewer, “I was intrigued by your point that the majority of men prefer a wife just smart enough to admire them, but not so smart as to outshine them. “For latecomers, you are listening to N.P.R., National Public Radio. I am Carolyn Brown talking to Janet Rogers, professor of sociology from Southern Texas University, about her latest book: Brainy Women.” 5 I punched the button on the car radio dial to “off” and increased my speed to 70-mph, and shouted to nobody “And I’m Margo Kemperdick, Ph.D., fifty- five-year-old widow, who refuses to fit into your stupid statistics!” The sign on the road reading “Rest Area: 5 miles” looked blurry. Tears! I decreased my speed to 15-mph as I exited Pacific Coast Highway north of Oxnard on the Pacific Coast Highway for a pit stop. It was a long trip south from San Francisco to San Juan Capistrano. At the rest area, I pulled into one of the diagonal spaces and curled up the back seat of the van for a nap. When I am angry for more than a few minutes, I soon become sleepy. I think it’s because I’m afraid where the rage might take me. But before giving into the soporific urge, I try to analyze the cause of the upset. So, that day in the parking lot by the ocean, I asked myself, “Okay, sweet Margo, when was the last time you felt happy, or at least slightly content, and when did your mood change?” After becoming a widow 6 months ago, I started talking to myself regularly. No one knows until they lose their spouse what a satisfying part of marriage it was to have someone around to share one’s thoughts with, even if the other’s head is buried in a newspaper. There is a limit to how much friends want to hear. I worried that my closest buddies felt liked 2 the trapped audiences of the Ancient Mariner. Besides, much of the time these buddies are not within reach of my voice. It would seem ridiculous, for instance, right now to call my best friend, Ellen, on the phone from a hundred fifty miles away to talk about nothing. So, when did I last feel good? I was feeling wonderful after the visit to Natasha and darling first grandchild, Lucia. Beautiful Natasha, the artist, at twenty-three, with her long curly blond long hair and full figure, was even more radiant as a mother than as a teen. Seeing her again, I felt such pride in her for keeping the baby even when the father bailed out. The blissful feeling of Lucia’s dear squiggly nine-month- old body pressed into my bosom during the goodbye hug lasted about sixty miles down the coast. Memories of Lucia were gradually replaced by euphoria over the infinite sweep of the ocean’s water, hymns of praise to the Creator for all the beauty in the world. A glass of Japanese beer, sushi, and fragrant green tea at the seaside dive north of San Luis Obispo was delightful. So what was it? Lying in the back of the van, coherent thought was yielding to a mishmash of overlapping, unintelligible images, when the truth came through: that loathsome statistic, one in a hundred Ph.D.’s over forty will find a spouse coming from the mouth of that Brainy Woman gal. Shutting down my future, were you? I wondered what my being a Jew who became a Catholic would do to those numbers. Minus three out 3 of three hundred? How dare a sociologist try to psych out my future! Nonetheless, just before losing consciousness in sleep that afternoon I prayed: “Jesus, was it you wanting me to hear how little chance I have at finding a man? Trying to get me out of fantasyland about second husbands so I can settle down and concentrate on living for you and the kingdom?” I woke up groggy and numb. On the way to the bathroom I stopped to gaze at the black rubber- garbed surfers bobbing in the waves. “By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea, you and me, you and me, how happy we will be,” I sang as I opened the door marked “Women.” The rest area bathroom mirror revealed a lined face I hated to claim as my own. Fishing through my purse, I found remedies. I applied bright red lipstick, a light coating of base to cover wrinkles, a little rouge, and darker eyebrows to highlight my large hazel eyes. My curly hair was still mostly brown except for the natural grey stripe across the top; I released it from the bun and thought the result not bad at all. I returned to my orange VW van, a cold Coke in hand. I found a caller ID with the number of the monastery. In 1990, when my late husband Gustav and I had grown tired of university teaching, we founded a lay community around a group of Benedictine monks. The members paid a rental-donation for their casitas. Most of them, like me, had pensions from former jobs, or on interest from the bank, stocks, or social security. I wonder what Father 4 Michael wants, I asked myself. Gulping down some of my Coke, I dialed the monastery. Michael is the forty-five year old Prior of St. Gregory the Great in Capistrano. He was one of our older students when Gustav and I taught at the Catholic Culture Institute in Northern Arizona. “Hi, Margo dear,” came that deep rich voice I loved so much on the other end. I swung the van out onto the highway. “How close are you to home?” the monk asked? “About four hours away if I don’t run into too much traffic, Michael. What’s up?” My stomach turned over. Ever since the accident that killed my husband I tense up at unexpected phone calls without a clear reason for the call given early in the conversation. An emergency in Heidelberg where my son, Johannes, was working as a history professor? Lucia or Natasha in trouble in the short time since I’d last seen them? Father Michael must have sensed my fear for he quickly reassured me, “Nothing bad, sweetheart. There’s this guy visiting the monastery. Says he knew you in grad school at Fordham in the Bronx. He was planning to stay just for the afternoon, but he’ll stay overnight if he knows you’re coming back.” “Oh yeah!” I replied excitement rising. “What’s his name?” “Robert something? I forget. But I do remember that he said you were the smartest, most attractive woman he’d ever met.” 5 “So tell me, already, is he wearing a wedding ring?” “Come on, Margo, calm down,” Father Michael chuckled. “Would a holy monk be looking at the hands of visitors for wedding rings? I did notice how heavy his veins were, like the sculpture “praying hands”…Hold on a minute, Margo, someone else needs to talk to me.” I thought, when Father Michael gets back on the phone he’s going to start in with his grief-takes-time- speech. As my mentor and also a dear friend, the priest was worried about his jumpy lady disciple. His concern was more welcome than the ridiculing remarks of Ellen Davis, my English crony. Ellen is a member of our lay community who lost her husband many years ago. When she noticed my avid interest in male guests after Gustav’s death, she nicknamed me “Barry.” She claimed it was short for barracuda. She remarked jokingly that I seemed more like one of those voracious fish searching for prey at the bottom of the ocean than like a dignified Christian widow. “Are you still there, Margo? Sorry it took so long. You know what my life is. One hundred percent availability to the monks, the guests, the lay community! Listen, Margo, try leaving this second husband thing in God’s hands instead of snatching at straws. You’ll need to grieve much longer before you’re ready for another man in any case.” “Okay, okay. So what else did he say about me?” I persisted. 6 “It’s always lovely to talk to you, sweetheart, but I’m due at a meeting in a few minutes, so let’s end with a prayer. In a serious priest-tone Father Michael prayed: “Lord bless our dear lay community leader Margo Kemperdick. Give her safe travel and prayerful thoughts as she returns. Bless Gustav on his journey to heaven. And bless their children, Natasha and Johannes.” “Amen, Amen, Amen!” I responded but without a pause added before he could hang up: “You’re sure you don’t remember his name?” “Robert...something with an ‘s’?” “Auf wiedersehen, Vater,” I signed off, reverting unintentionally into the mother tongue of my late husband.

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