Вики Майрон - Dewey's Nine Lives

“I’m gonna take off,” he said. He grabbed my hand and kissed it. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

I was still thanking him for a lovely evening when I realized he had come around the table and was kissing me on the cheek. That normally would have put me off, a stranger being so forward, but my only thought as he disappeared into the crowd was, Well, that was nice .

“What was his name?” I asked my friends when we were outside and the cool March air had cleared my head. “Was it Paul?”

“For goodness’ sakes, Vicki,” Trudy said. “His name was Glenn.”

I may not have remembered his name, but there was something about this Glenn fellow I just couldn’t forget. Something that lifted my spirits, that made me think of him whenever my mind started to wander. Something that made the feel of his hands spring to mind at the strangest times.

That something was his eyes. It may sound strange, but when I looked into Glenn Albertson’s eyes that night at Storm’n Norman’s, I thought of Dewey. When I pulled Dewey out of the library book drop, wrapped him in a blanket, and held him against my chest, he was ice cold. His paws were literally frozen, and he barely had a pulse. He didn’t know me, but he lifted his head and looked into my eyes with affection. I looked into his eyes and saw openness and trust.

I knew Glenn was a gentleman, because he never pushed me or tried to dance too close. I knew he was a thoughtful man, because of the way he supported me between songs. I knew he was a kind man, because of the way he spoke to my friends. But there was something else in his eyes. There was the calmness of the old soul, and an honest affection. Like Dewey, he wasn’t just looking at me, he was seeing me. And he was letting me see him. Not just the kindness, but what lurked behind it: the fear and hurt, but also a deep sense of contentment and pride.

Dewey sent him , I thought, when I saw those eyes. It was just a moment, a sudden flash, before I realized it was merely a matter of similarity—they were alike, Dewey and Glenn. But the thought stuck with me. Dewey sent him . I knew it wasn’t possible, but love is so wrapped up and complicated, so heartfelt and illogical, what can we really ever know for sure?

I knew one thing for sure: I wanted to see him again. So I called Norman’s wife, Jeanette. “I met a fellow named Glenn at your place last week,” I told her. “Tall with a beard, nice smile, good dancer.”

“I know him,” Jeanette said.

“Is he a good guy or a bad guy?”

“Oh, he’s a good guy,” Jeanette said, getting excited. “A really good guy.” I didn’t know Glenn had been helping out at the dance hall for years. I didn’t know he had been friends with Jeanette and Norman since high school. At that point, I didn’t know much about him at all, only that he was the most open and attentive man I’d ever met.

“I can set this up,” Jeanette said, getting excited. “I used to do this all the time in high school. I’m really good at it. I can call him if you want.”

A few hours later, Glenn called me. We talked for a half an hour, then longer a few nights later. Pretty soon, we were talking every night, then two or three times a day. We talked about everything—our work, our cats (although I never mentioned the book), even the biggies: politics and religion. When it was time for the next Storm’n Norman dance, we were both eager to see each other again. Just for the dancing , I told myself, he’s such a good dancer . But my nervous energy as Trudy, Faith, and I took the long drive to Waterbury, Nebraska, told me that wasn’t true. There were so many butterflies in my stomach, I could have lifted right out of the car.

We were late because of Faith (being on Faith time, we call it), and there was a line at the ticket window. When the couples cleared, I saw him standing on the other side of the door, waiting for me. He was wearing a nice pair of black jeans and a tucked-in black button-down shirt, and I could tell just by the way he held himself that he had spent a few extra minutes getting ready for the night. Then I saw the red rose in his hand, and the butterflies vanished. I walked up and, without hesitation, kissed him on the cheek. I can’t remember what we said. I only remember dancing, because it was like we’d been doing it together all our lives. Somewhere in the middle of the night, when the band hit the opening chords of Ronnie Milsap’s “Lost in the 50s Tonight,” I remember looking into his eyes and seeing for the hundredth time the warmth—and an invitation. I’m open , they said. I’m here. I’m for you. I’m never going to hurt you .

“My favorite song,” Glenn said, as the band sang “shoo-bop, shoobe-bop, so real, so right.”

“Mine, too,” I said. Then I laid my head against his chest, just over his heart, and thought: I’m home .

If I had known then about his three marriages and five children? Well, I’ve got to admit, I still would have been interested in Glenn Albertson. Maybe if I’d known before the first dance, things might have been different. But after the second night? At that point, there was no turning back. Even as we got to know each other over the coming weeks, and even as his life unspooled before me, I never doubted his character. One divorce is a mistake. Three divorces? That’s when you stop pointing the finger at other people and start looking at yourself. But Glenn had done that work. That’s why, the more I found out about his life, the more extraordinary he became. I had met plenty of guys who were closed off, who ran from their emotions and couldn’t talk about much beyond sports. Glenn had gone through more than any of them, and yet he was willing to share that pain with me. He could lift me like a feather; he could take apart and repair my car; he could give me a wonderful massage and even cut my hair; he could give me a rose and a kiss and make me feel like the most beautiful woman in Iowa. But most important, he could be honest with me. He could show me his heart.

To ponder Glenn’s life, though, is to ignore the biggest obstacle to our relationship: I was dead serious about my single life. I had lived it for so long, I had no intention of leaving. As my old saying goes (or went): “I only want a man if I can hang him in my closet, like an old suit I can pull out when I want to dance.” And I meant it. At almost sixty years old, with more than thirty years happily single, I didn’t even want to contemplate bringing a man into my life. I had given the library and my daughter everything I had, and I felt pride and satisfaction in what I had accomplished. I was close to my family, especially my father, who needed me more than ever since my mother’s death. I had great friends I’d known for decades, and who I could count on for love, support, and a belly-busting laugh. I had my daughter. And grandchildren. I made shadow boxes and had planned fourteen weddings (and counting), from the flowers to the invitations to the first song. I was retired, but I still served on several statewide library boards, so I traveled regularly. I will always remember tumbling into a taxi cab in New Orleans after a night of drinking and dancing with professional friends. The driver, after a few minutes, turned to us and said, “I can’t believe you’re librarians. You’re having so much fun.”

Of course we had fun! Librarians aren’t ladies with bun hairdos who always say shush . We’re highly educated men and women who manage businesses. We fight censorship. We are early adopters of e-books and computer networks. We market, we educate, we create. Our jobs are challenging and complex, even more so with a cat on staff, and that’s why we love them so much.