The Sailor's Wife Ch. 04: Folk Song

"I guess I've got to let you know sometime. Remember that band I told you about? Well, they're gonna put it together in New York. They want me for rhythm and back up vocals. First rehearsal is on Wednesday, Eric Clapton's gonna come in the next day and see what we've got. He might wind up being the front man."

Steph understood what was being said. "So you'll be leaving?"

"I don't want to go, believe me."

"I want you to stay, too. But if you don't go..."

On the way back across the Bay Bridge, Rusty looked at the aircraft carriers. "Steph, do you love your old man?"

"What?"

"Your husband. Do you love him?"

"Yes, I do. Very much."

"How 'bout me?"

"You know I love you, too. I don't think I really want to make a choice."

As they made love that night, Stephanie treated him a little more tenderly, and when he was on top of her, fully inside her, she wondered, "How many more times?"

The next day, Monday, Stephanie silenced the alarm, and refused to leave Rusty. 'Too little time,' she thought, 'soon he'll be gone. I can't waste a minute.' When the office opened, she called in sick. Mr. Donegal accepted the explanation of a bad cold. Her work record, except for the single tardiness, had been perfect.

"Get up," she called to Rusty, "I've got plans for you." After cereal, she packed the beach toys and they drove once again across the bay, over the mountains, to the sea. Rusty expected her to pull into Muir Beach, but instead she turned north. Down the cliff overlooking Stinson, still she drove. And then, the gate that said 'Point Reyes National Seashore." Another fifteen minutes, and they rode along a ridge, a bay and bright sunshine to their left, a deep fog to their right. Five miles later, she turned the car into the mist and slowly drove down the hill to a parking lot large enough for a hundred cars, empty but for the Volkswagen.

They got out, glad to be through with the long drive, and heard the rhythmic pounding of the huge waves, unseen even though they were only fifty yards away. They donned ponchos and began a long, steady hike to the west, marveling at the height of the waves spurred by a storm five hundred miles out to sea, listening to the wind whip the sea grasses, stung by sand flying in the breeze. A mile on a beach is a long way, the walking difficult and tedious. Stephanie discovered a perfect abalone shell. They seemed to be the only people in the world, alone in the vapor.

Finding shelter from the tempest in a pile of abandoned logs, they rested. Here, in this sunken grove bordered by driftwood and stunted bushes, they hungered for each other. Quickly they stripped each other of their sweaters, jeans, and shoes. When they were undressed, she placed her back on the sand and accepted him on top of her. Slowly he placed himself at her entrance, and again they were one, completely linked, and they satisfied each other, understanding their mental as well as their physical needs, climaxing together.

Naked in the mist, Stephanie asked for the truth. "Rusty, have you decided yet?"

"No, not really. I think this could be the opportunity of a lifetime."

"Not very many people get the chance to work with Eric Clapton, I guess."

"I wasn't speaking of him. I was thinking of you."

"Me?" she questioned.

"Yes, you. I love you, Stephanie." She winced at the words, the most beautiful, most hurtful she'd ever heard. He pulled her to him, cuddled her. "If only it weren't so complicated."

"My husband, you mean?"

"Yes, there's that."

"And your girlfriend."

"My girlfriend?" He seemed for a minute to be confused. "Oh, that. Honey, that's the only lie I've ever told you. I don't really have a girlfriend in Boston. Oh, I did, but I haven't seen her in two years. I hear she's getting married."

"Then why did you tell me you did?"

"When I pick a girl up, I tell her that; it makes it easy to leave the next morning."

"Or the next week." He hung his head, ashamed of his ruse. "But that first night, the night you told me, you didn't invite me into your room."

"Would you have come?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"That's it. I knew then you were different, I didn't want it to be a one-night stand."

She felt complimented by the story, but a decision had to be made. "Rusty, you should go to New York. You've waited so long for this break, this could be the big time."

"I want to stay with you."

"I want you to stay, too. But I also want to see your name on the cover of an album, and to hear your voice recorded for all time. If you don't leave now, you'll wind up regretting it. Then you'll blame me sooner or later."

"Never."

"Yes, you will."

"Then come with me."

"Just leave Glenn?" She hadn't thought of that option. She could help Rusty make his name, be his groupie. "But what would I do while you were making music? And when you go on the road, will I sit and wait for you? That's no different than my life now."

"Don't make a snap decision. Think about it. I love you so much, and I don't want to lose you."

By now, they were cold, from the wind, and from the conversation, and they dressed. The long walk back, never letting go, both afraid if they lost contact the wind would blow the other away into the fog.

They drove to the other side of the peninsula, climbed the cliffs over Sir Francis Drake Bay, ate cheese and bread, drank wine. High in the meadow, Rusty got his guitar out and began to serenade her with love songs: "Love City" by Peter, Paul and Mary, Elton John's "Your Song," Glenn Campbell's "Gentle On My Mind." Then he began another song she'd never heard before.

. In Northern California, down along above the sea

. My woman dwells in wonder, her name is Stephanie.

. Endearment is the watchword, allurement is the key

. Peacefulness surrounds the girl, Oh lovely Stephanie.

Stephanie's eyes leaked with joy at the gift, and with despair, because she knew that this love affair would not end sweetly, quietly.

By the time they returned from the journey, it was dark. They held each other, silently attempting to decide their fates. The phone rang, it was Rusty's agent.

"Hi, Jeff... Yes, I know. I'm sorry about that... What's the last flight tomorrow night... Fine, get me a ticket... I'll see you Wednesday morning... Bye."

He came back to her, held her. "You've decided to go," she prophesied.

"Yes," he answered pensively.

"I'm glad you made your decision. It's the right one."

"Now it's time for you to make yours," he told her.

She looked at the sofa she'd bought, the books, the stereo, and then her eyes lighted on a trophy. Glenn had won it years ago in a high school science fair, it was his proudest possession. No, that was unfair, she was his proudest possession. "I can't leave with you," she sadly proclaimed.

On the morning of his departure, she rose and called in sick again, then went back to lie beside him. For an hour she just looked at him, watched him sleep, his chest rising and falling. His eyes opened, he gazed at her, pulled her to him. They made love one last, final time.

"What would you like to do today?"

"Can we go back into San Francisco? I'd like to hear you sing once more."

Into the car, they found a parking spot near Ghirardelli Square. It was too early for the tourists, so they walked up the hills, around the wharves. Around noon, Rusty set up near the cable car turnaround and started his usual prattle, singing 'Heart' and 'Flowers' over and over again. She sat on a bench nearby where he could catch her eye, not minding the repetition, happy to have one last afternoon near him.

The crowds thinned, they went to a restaurant. Back to his song spot in the twilight, but this time he didn't play for the sightseers, he performed for her. All of her favorites, "You've Got A Friend", "Time In A Bottle", "Love City", "Surf and Sun", and, of course, "Stephanie's Song". He never looked at the passersby, not caring if they threw money in the guitar case or not, gazing at her, making love to her through his eyes. The clouds gathered, and a mist began to fall. He wouldn't stop serenading her. With barely an hour left until his flight, he sang one last song for her, one she'd never heard him sing before, Carole King's "Home Again."

. Snow is cold, rain is wet 
. Chills my soul right to the marrow
. I won't be happy till I see you alone again
. Till I'm home again and feeling right

They held hands tightly on the drive to the airport, suddenly a cloudburst drenched the freeway. "This is the first time I've seen it rain out here."

"It hasn't rained for months. It'll be an early winter, it seems."

He refused to let her come to the gate. "It's hard enough this way." At the curb, as they held each other for the last time, he asked, "If I come back this way?"

"Call me."

And he was gone, taking his guitar and suitcase through the sliding doors, she lost sight of him.

She couldn't see well on the way back; it was raining much too hard.