TOO EARLY TOO LATE by Lynn Faye

It was 1969. We were not married very long. All the threats of moving to Canada to avoid the draft never materialized. After three years of watching our friends leave -- student deferments no longer an excuse and the musings of civil disobedience done --his lottery number came up. Too low to avoid it. His father -- a small. sweet, religious, seemingly unassuming man, so different from my own father -- a dynamic, strapping, ex-football player with an ego the size of Texas, was apparently better connected than I ever suspected. He managed to get his son into the Army Reserves and sent to the battlefields of Missouri for basic training and thereafter to the killing fields of Indiana -- a long way from Viet Nam.

We were newlyweds and separated already.

I was lucky. A mentor professor and friend, who saw this as a good opportunity for me to complete my master's degree unfettered, recommended me for a fellowship and I took a short leave of absence from my job to complete my internship program. An opportunity that moved me into a better position and pay range. All the time while my new husband was away -- miserable, complaining, and lonely. A Jewish college boy in the military stationed outside of St. Louis. He and another young man of similar background became fast friends and had each other. Everyone else couldn't stand them. Two privileged, educated boys from the east coast -- with enough connections to keep them here in the U. S. of A. while the other basic trainees were about to be shipped out.

Every telephone conversation or letter for the first two months was a whine -- long and angry. "And what are you doing there while I'm here?" he would say.
"Going to school full time and advancing yourself!"

Not a great beginning for us.

And so, in one telephone conversation I assured him that I would hop a plane as soon as school break began and come to visit him -- in St. Louis. Despite my Chicago upbringing, I'd never been to St. Louis. I didn't want to go, either. But poor him.

And so, I flew to Chicago, visited my family for a day or two -- a way to delay the reunion -- and then another flight to St. Louis. He would come from Ft. Leonard Wood and meet me that night. I took the airport shuttle to downtown St. Louis.
Checked into a long ago forgotten but nice hotel. As I unpacked, I realized that I had forgotten a nightgown or robe. Now... did I really need such things after not seeing my husband for two months?? Did he care what I was wearing? Wouldn't he keep me warm? No matter. I had to look good for him, didn't I?

I trotted across the street to Stix Baer and Fuller -- a long shuttered St. Louis landmark gone the way of Hudson's of Detroit, Marshall Field's of Chicago, Gimbels and B. Altman of New York; and the hundreds of other department stores that have been replaced by big boxes. But in 1969, Stix was still there. In I went. I encountered the quintessential saleswoman. Just like my Auntie Eva, who worked twenty-five years for Marshall Field and Company selling luxury handbags until the store saw fit to lay her off about a year before she became pensionable. Same perfect silver white hair, cropped just above the ears; same ice blue eyes that twinkled when you walked up to her counter and invited you to buy. And the same swollen ankles, knee problems, and orthopedic shoes that went with standing on your feet all day for a half-life. I felt like this saleswoman at Stix was my Auntie. I told her my whole sad story. Oh no! No pretty peignoir set for my husband. Just my winter white, white body. And she went to town. Fixed me up just perfect. She knew my history, I knew everything about St. Louis, and I left with a powder blue, see-through, shortie gown and matching robe. Certainly not the black, lace, plunging, floor-length nightgown my husband probably had in mind since he bought one for me not long before our marriage ended --- years too late.
I'm the picture of the Virgin Mary while he's hoping for Mary Magdalene.

And so, I returned to my hotel room -- soon to be our hotel room -- and waited, nervously. Did I really know him? Would he know me?
After all, we were together for three years before we got married.
But we were a pair of babies -- not all that far out of the crib ourselves.
While I waited, I tried to be excited but I was more anxious and frightened than anything else. Indeed, in two months without him, I was doing just fine.
And when he finally arrived, it was heartbreaking.
I didn't recognize him. His hair was shaved off and he had lost 20 of the mere 140 pounds he weighed before he left.
We were tentative.
We were shy.
We didn't know what to say to one another.
I was almost like we had just met.
Or were we different people than those we once knew?
Two months -- but two lifetimes.
He cried.
I cried.
We should have realized it then.
We didn't love each other.
But we didn't want to know.
And so we played at something. He pretended to like my nightgown. I pretended to like him. He pretended not to be angry that I wasn't going through what he was going through. I pretended not to be angry that he wanted me to be more loving and to take the lead.
And so, he ejaculated prematurely.
As always.
And, for the next five years -- while we figured out that we didn't even like each other let alone love each other.
Five years of ejaculating prematurely and pretending to be satisfied.
What a waste.
He blamed me.
I blamed him - and me. Typical.