Swinging in the Decades

"You like the ass fuck as much as I do?" he asked, somewhat incredulously.

"The way you do it, yes."

"I don't want to go back to Cassie and my room in the hotel," he said.

"Neither do I," I answered.

"But you see the way it is. I don't have enough Swiss francs in my wallet to do more than tip a hatcheck girl to retrieve Cassie's mink coat."

"I have some money—and credit cards. I'd love Brady to see the charge on the cards. I'm not above buying your body for New Year's."

And I did have enough money for a small hotel down an alley, which no doubt had a reputation for just how we used it—and that had thick, soundproof walls.

* * * *

Christmas of 2009 was one of whirlwind trips for me to cover the distance between Brian's home in Tampa and Billy's in Denver. They both were married now and had children of their own. But they fought for equal time from me at Christmas, and, although I didn't tell them, that they each wanted me around was all the Christmas present I needed.

I was rattling around the house in Chicago now. I'd gotten it in the divorce settlement and hadn't gotten around to selling it. I would have sold it three years earlier except that Brian had remarked that he considered it home and always felt good coming back to it. Billy had nodded his head in agreement with that, so I kept the house—for my boys. For whenever they wanted to come home.

I had been at loose ends waiting for the divorce to come through until I was going through a photo album and ran across Brady's MBA graduation photos. I returned to college, got my teaching degree, and teach French in a nearby high school now. I put the years of living Paris to some good use at least—god knows I had to learn the language to survive there—and it feels great to have money to spend—on myself—that I earned myself.

Brady was still in Paris—married to Cassie now, and I can't help thinking that they deserve each other. I was confident they were cheating on each other. Pete had finally had enough of being kept and had left her. He was back in the States now, being an electrician somewhere, I suppose. He was too old now to have rejoined the army. It's funny. I only really was with Pete in person those three times those last three decades, but it seemed like we were old friends—and lovers.

But it was only a relationship in memory. We didn't write to each other. I didn't even know where he was. It didn't matter. I was sure all of the regard was from my side.

Brady had sent expensive gifts to the boys and their children—and to me too—but he hadn't even hinted the possibility of showing up for Christmas. He was still good to me financially, although I tried to live on what I made other than having the house mortgage free. I'd been saving what Brady sent me and planned to shove it on to the boys someday. I worked hard to keep them from resenting him. Ever the cheery salesmen, he just floated across the surface, not really getting upset with anybody or anything. He was somewhat surprised when I asked for the divorce after that last affair. But he rolled with the punches. Cassie had already been acting like his second wife in Paris. I imagine it took him a week or more to even realize I'd packed up and come home.

I was sitting in the kitchen of the Chicago house at 11:00 p.m. on New Year's Eve 2009, waiting for a mummified Dick Clark to mumble in the decade of 2010 on the TV and eating dobosh torte and drinking tea for nostalgia's sake, when I heard the doorbell chime.

It was Pete, of course. When I opened the door, he held out a couple of Swiss franc notes.

"I trust your children can take care of themselves now?" he said. "I've only got a couple of Swiss francs, but I hear this hotel goes cheap for the right man and that the rooms have soundproof walls."

I stood, looking at him, fighting the tears. I must have been slow on the uptake, as he gave me a sad look and said, "Maybe you're still waiting for the right man?"

"I was," I said, my voice clogged with emotion, "but he's here now."