A harried visit

November 3, 1985

She came and went, but is still not gone, nor has the storm of controversy disappeared from around her.

It sends shock waves ahead and behind.

I should have known she would be coming and that the reason for her coming would not be simple.

I’ve been writing about her again and that seems to draw her out of the woodwork.

She has numerous reasons for coming; the least important of all is seeing me.

No, that’s not true either.

Seeing me is a matter of convenience, and she manipulates me by withholding fact until it is too late for me to do anything about any of it – and possibly upset her plans, or would be so embarrassed to do so as to seem unreasonable.

She called yesterday at two in the afternoon saying, “I’ll be down for a visit.”

A short visit, she said, just in and out.

She claimed she would have to get back home to meet a friend the next morning.

“Going to New York City,” she said, and in my half conscious state this did not hit me as a calculated statement.

I offered to let her spend the night. It seemed silly to have her drive all the way back only to come back to this neck of the woods a few hours later.

She said “Maybe,” and hung up.

Some hours later she called. She had gotten off at the wrong exit – again – and was lost in the heart of Passaic.

I went out and led her back through the maze of streets to my little hovel.

It was then she informed me that she was to attend a Halloween party in Clifton.

“Something my boyfriend doesn’t know about,” she said.

How strangely her mind works, the push and pull of motives and plans. She comes all the way to Jersey to party and make peace with me – at least long enough to have a place to rest.

“I start a new job Tuesday,” she said.

In the meantime, she is making good use of her short vacation.

This morning I deliberately overslept – just to see what would happen.

Maybe that upset her plans enough to wrangle a real visit out of her.

She managed, however, to salvage her trip, and even managed a brief telephone confession to her boyfriend back home, telling him she would be going to a party without him.

Maybe she feared I might accidentally reveal her secret the next time I met with them together. And then, in yet another bit of last minute information, she informed me that she had driven her boyfriend’s car with her, but that her friends from the party would be picking her up and could I keep an eye on the car if she leaves it here.

“I’ll be back to collect it in the morning, I promise,” she said, wiggling her fingers as she left to the honk of horn of her party friends just then pulling up outside.

A harried visit 1985