by Michael C. Keith
Eternity is in love with
the productions of time.
–William Blake
The computer screen lit up and the email icon flashed.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“Is this the David C. Marsh I knew back in the 70s? The guy who said he’d conquer the world one day and apparently has based on the number of Google hits I got when I entered his name. If so, this is your old friend, Ginny. If not , please disregard this message.”
It was the first email I opened as I sipped my morning coffee. Ginny, I thought, oh my God, it’s Ginny! My memories of our steamy trysts had not dimmed in the more than three decades since our last heated encounter. How could they? Nothing had equaled their lusty intensity and raw sensuality.
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Yes, this is the same David C. Marsh. Wow!! Is it really you, Ginny? How are you?”
I answered, wondering if I would actually hear back from this long ago but never forgotten lover. As I refilled my cup, the email chirped.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“I can’t believe it’s you, Dave! ? I have so much to ask you. Is that okay? I mean I don’t want to interfere with your life or disturb you. It was so long ago, maybe you’d just as soon let the past remain the past.”
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Not at all. Those are some pretty great memories, even if we were young and foolish, or maybe because we were young and foolish. So ask away, and then I have a few questions of my own.”
I replied, taking the last gulp of my second cup of coffee and glancing at my watch.
My carpool was due to pick me up at any moment, but until I heard the car horn beckon me, I had no intention of cutting short this unexpected exchange, which launched a rapid succession of vivid images of the two of us locked in each other’s naked embrace. This was not something I was ready to disrupt for the sake of a ride to work. Yet I knew when the horn sounded, I would sign off and scurry out the door—dedicated employee that I was.
“Are you still married to Randy? Where are you living now? Do you work?”
I asked before Ginny could get off her round of questions.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“Me first, okay? I see from the Internet you’re a veep of operations at Conning Industries. I remember when you were just a gofer at Belmont Labs and going to community college.”
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Yeah, and you were the sexy little receptionist I couldn’t stop hitting on.”
I could feel my heart’s rhythm increase as I typed a reply.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“Is that what I was? Boy was that a long time ago. Now I’ve got grown up kids and a grandchild on the way.”
It was impossible for me to imagine the shapely young woman whose perfect body I had so ravenously partaken of in countless hotel rooms throughout the city of Atlanta as a grandmother. A picture of an old woman pushing a walker popped into my head. I knew that was an unfair stereotype in this day and age when 60 was supposedly the new 50 or even 45, but it was still the vision that filled my mine’s eye until the sweeter ones of our lovemaking returned.
“I’ve held up pretty well over the years, if I do say so. Not an old hag yet. How about you? Bet you haven’t gone to seed either, right?”
For a while I had allowed a roll of flab to form around my midsection, but in recent years I had shed the bulge and had returned to form, or something as close to my previous form as I could achieve at 60.
To: websterg@comcast.net
“The years haven’t done me in entirely. I try to keep in shape. You know, go to the gym and avoid sweets. Well, almost no sweets, that is. So, where are you living now? Still in Georgia?”
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“No, we moved to Ohio quite a while back. Randy was transferred to Akron by his company. Not exactly the cultural epicenter of the world, but it’s okay here. I’ve adapted. Had to. Until a couple years ago, I was working fulltime in the billing department at a radio station. Now I spend a lot of time volunteering at a local women’s shelter and puttering around in my flower garden. So, are you married?”
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Yeah, I got married about 5 years after we last saw each other. She’s a teacher and her students love her. Actually, everybody loves her because she’s kind and generous and a heck of a lot easier to get along with than this old cretin. Better than I deserve. I’m lucky.”
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“Now, now, don’t say that. As I recall, you were a pretty decent guy.”
A car horn sounded.
To: websterg@comcast.net
“My ride to work is here. Can we continue this later?”
To: marshdc@earthlink.net
“Absolutely. It’s so good to reconnect with you, Dave. You’ve never left my thoughts, you know.
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Mine neither. It would be pretty hard to erase those steamy memories. Not that I ever tried. Later, okay?”
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“Okay.”
Replied my former inamorata, and I put the computer to sleep and shuffled out the door.
* * *
Normally I keep from accessing my home email from work, but with Ginny filling my thoughts, that was impossible. By mid-morning, I could no longer resist the urge to see if she had sent another email. She had.
To: marshdc@earthline.com
“You said we were young and foolish, and we were, but some of life’s most precious experiences come from that, I think. I was married but you overwhelmed me. I mean I couldn’t resist being with you. I loved Randy, but you just stirred something in me he didn’t. I knew it wasn’t right to be with you, but I had to. No one else has caused me to stray since, not that it was your fault. Au contraire. I knew what I was doing, and strangely felt little guilt about it. After I’d come home from being with you, I’d be with Randy, but the passion wasn’t there. Not like it was with you. Sorry, I talk too much. Hey, do you have any kids?”
To: websterg@comcast.net
“A daughter.”
I tapped out on my computer keyboard while keeping my eyes peeled to the door of my office fearing I’d be discovered in violation of company rules about personal emailing. As vice president of operations, I had sent out many warnings about doing so.
“She’s in her twenties and married. The guy’s a biologist, but not a world-class wit. He’s okay, though, and Claire’s happy enough. She works as a drug addiction counselor. How about your kids?’
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“Both are still in Georgia. My daughter is a housewife and pregnant, and my son, Cory, is still trying to find himself, but he’s a good boy. My daughter’s name is Sarah.”
Since my middle name is Cory, I naturally was curious to know if she had named him after me, but I kept from asking her. It seemed arrogant and invasive to do so. Not really any of my business now, if ever it was.
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Nice names.”
Is all I said, and Ginny said nothing further on the subject.
“We sure made the rounds of Atlanta’s motels.”
I ventured, again stirred by the recollections of our un-harnessed carnality.
Sex with Ginny was profound and otherworldly. It was the most consuming event in my life at the time and since. Nothing titillated or consumed me like the prospect of bedding down with her. We made love with an insatiability that still amazes me. I’ve had no such comparable craving since. Yet we weren’t in love, or never admitted we were, although there was a moment when we considered getting together, she leaving her husband and everything else really. That idea was fleeting, however. Neither of us wanted that kind of relationship. We just wanted to go to bed together, and we sensed if it were a daily occurrence it would lose its special power, so for almost three years we slept together when there was an opportunity. The often lengthy periods between our rendezvous served to fan the flame of our desires and made the moments we spent together extraordinary.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“We increased their profits for a while. “That’s for sure. Sometimes I think those days were just a dream. How could two people be so ravenous, so aroused? I mean we just devoured each other. Okay . . . I think this is going in an unintended direction. Just wanted to see if you were okay, and you clearly are.”
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Guess those flames aren’t entirely extinguished.”
I replied and minutes passed before she replied.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“Take care, Dave. I wish you happiness. At least I know you weren’t an illusion.”
It was the last email from her for two months.
* * *
I resisted reconnecting with Ginny after our initial round of emails, because I wasn’t sure she wanted me to and because it felt deceitful to be engaging in a dialogue with an old flame. My marriage had always been based on fidelity and honesty, and this struck me as a violation of that. It was enough to be reliving in my mind the sexual encounters with Ginny, but engaging with her in cyberspace seemed a material breach of trust that could have no positive outcome, I concluded. Ironically, it was just after an argument with my wife, over something I hardly recall at this point, that I received an email from Ginny.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“Got some bad news this morning that I need to share with somebody right away our I think I’ll lose it. I haven’t told Randy yet, because I don’t want to drop this on him at work, and I can’t seem to raise the courage to call my kids, so you’re the lucky one . . . sorry! Anyway, here goes. I have pancreatic cancer, and the doctor gives me a few months. I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that I’m going to die. I didn’t even feel sick. But the doctor found something and ran a couple tests. So there you have it, your old squeeze is about to meet her maker. Wonder what he’ll have to say about us? Dying doesn’t scare me. It just makes me feel sad for my family.”
To: websterg@comcast.net
“I’m so sorry, Ginny. Is there anything I can do?”
I replied, nearly at a loss for words.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“Just be the old friend you are, Dave, a sounding board, okay? I know all this must seem very weird to you. I mean, we don’t talk for decades and then suddenly I contact you, and now I dump this in your lap. Beware those ghosts from your past, eh?”
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Hey, don’t worry. I want to be there for you. You’ve been a special part of my life, and it was amazing hearing from you out of the blue. You’ve been on my mind ever since, and I almost emailed you after our last exchange, but I figured it would be better not to because my wife would be a little upset by my writing an old flame. This is different though. I’m not going to tell her, but I think she’d be all right with it if I did. But I’ll let sleeping dogs lie. No sense in causing a stir.”
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“When Randy gets home, I’ll tell him. He’s good at dealing with crises, although this may really throw him. But the kids . . . I don’t know how they’ll take it. I don’t want their lives turned upside down by this. Shit!! I never expected this to happen. You think you’re immortal. Then a time limit is placed on your life and everything changes . . . everything.”
To: websterg@comcast.net
“We were immortal when we were that young couple pulling each other’s clothes off at the local Holiday Inn. At least it seemed so. Thoughts of death were as remote as the moon. Other people died, not us. Sorry, I’m not helping much. Did you get a second opinion? People are diagnosed all the time with things they don’t have.”
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“I’m going to get another take on this, but I don’t think it will turn out any differently. My doctors are excellent. They’re very thorough and careful, and they’re certain about this. I wish they weren’t so damn competent. Where are the quacks when you need them?”
Ginny’s ability to make light of her plight wasn’t a total surprise. In those long ago days of our affair, her sense of irony was amply evident, especially when she’d observe how absurd it was for her to be laying in bed with me when she had a perfectly good husband at home.
“There’s got to be something really wrong with me to be doing this, but then insanity does run in my family, so I guess I’m just keeping with tradition” she’d often observe between rounds of frenzied sex.
“Even the best of doctors can be wrong.
I offered, finding it increasingly difficult to say anything encouraging. I knew her diagnosis was the equivalent of a death sentence and there was little likelihood she would find out otherwise from another battery of tests.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“It’s bizarre hoping your doctor has made a mistake, isn’t it? I mean you go to the same doctor because you believe he doesn’t screw up, but when he tells you that you have something really bad, you pray he’s wrong.”
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Well, I bet he is”
I ineptly replied.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“No, I don’t think so. Look I’ve got to sign off for now and try to get myself together for when Randy comes home. This is not a good day, but talking with you has helped. Love you.”
The last two words of her email rang in my head. It was the first time she had ever used them in relation to us. We had always avoided making such a declaration out of the complications we felt it would inspire. We loved our illicit assignations but we instinctively felt that going any further was not the right path for us to take.
* * *
Over the next few weeks, we continued our cyber dialogue, and during that time my preoccupation with Ginny increased to near obsessive proportions. As expected, Randy had turned out to be a rock, and her kids were handling it better than she expected. A second opinion just confirmed the first. At best, she had six to eight months, claimed the medicos, and that time would be filled with an array of numbing drugs.
To: marshdc@earthlink.net
“The chemo gives me a couple extra months, but I’ll feel like shit during that time, so what’s the gain? I’ll go along with it because Randy and the kids insist. Otherwise, I’d tell them to stuff it.”
I could not imagine myself dealing with the same situation the way she was, and with each email, my respect and admiration for her grew.
To: websterg@comcast.net
“Wonder how things would have turned out if we’d taken the next step? You know, moved in together. Maybe got married.”
I ventured during one of our frequent exchanges.
To: marshdc@earthlink.com
“I’ve wondered about that, too, but things turn out for the best . . . most of the time, at least. We’ve got some good memories, and that’s a lot.”
Ginny responded.
As she neared the end, her courage and tenacity did not falter. On the other hand, I grew more morose and downcast by the prospect of her imminent demise. During our many conversations, she had revealed details about her neighborhood, and I now resolved to visit her before she died. Without any suspicion, my wife accepted my story about going to Akron on business, and on a Tuesday morning I boarded the plane for the Buckeye state filled with apprehension for what I might encounter. Would Ginny be upset by my unexpected visit? Would the sight of her diminished appearance shock me and cause her embarrassment?
The car ride from the Akron airport to Ginny’s house took less than fifteen minutes, but it took almost a half hour for me to summons the courage to climb from the rental when I got there. A Toyota Prius was parked in the driveway and I had a sense someone was peeking out a window as I approached the front door. What was I doing, I thought as I pressed the doorbell? Again, I wondered if Ginny would be angered by my unannounced appearance? Was I breaking the rules of our relationship? We had never ventured into one another’s domestic space. It seemed inappropriate to do so, almost a form of defilement.
My anxiety gave over to excitement as the door began to open. It had been 32 years since I’d seen Ginny, and even in these grim circumstances, it would be good to see her again.
“Can I help you?” asked an elderly Asian woman through a tiny opening in the entranceway.
A caregiver, I assumed, as I inquired about Ginny.
“Who . . . who?” she responded, as the squawk of a parrot escaped from the depths behind her.
“Ginny Webster,” I replied, speaking very slowly and deliberately in case language was a problem for her.
“Oh, Ginny Webster,” answered the woman, who then opened the door a few more inches allowing me a glimpse of the house’s interior. “No . . . no. Sorry, Ginny Webster not here. She die six years ago. We buy house from her husband, Landy. He not live here now either. Go back to Georgia to be with children.”
My head swirled from shock and confusion. Who was this person, and why was she making up such an outrageous story, I wondered?
“That’s impossible, I protested. “I talked with her a few days ago.”
“No, she die six years ago. Sorry, I go now,”
“Maybe she lives at another house here in the neighborhood? “ I questioned desperately.
“She dead! She dead!” barked the woman closing the door hard in my face.
I checked the house number again and returned to my rental car where I sat staring at what had doubtlessly been Ginny’s house. This was no elaborate deception or hoax designed to keep me from seeing Ginny. I knew she was dead, but six years ago? Everything in me rejected that possibility. The dead don’t send emails. I drove around the upscale neighborhood where Ginny had lived hoping to find something that would shed light on this bizarre mystery, but I encountered nothing that did. What could?
That night I arrived back home more perplexed than ever. What had happened? Was I delusional? Had my brain manufactured the whole experience? Did I so long to reconnect with my old lover that I created a scenario that made it possible? It all seemed so implausible and frightening to me.
My wife was pleased with my early return and greeted me with a warm smile and hug, which were reassuring given the day’s unsettling occurrence. Since it was close to midnight, we went straight to bed, but I could not sleep. The events of the last twelve hours kept asserting themselves, as did all the emails from Ginny over the last few months. I rose and went to my home office, and in the dim glow of a nightlight, I tapped my computer’s space bar disrupting its sleep. The email icon flashed. Among the half dozen or so messages was one from Ginny. It contained no text, only a photo of her as the young woman I had known in another lifetime.
About the Author
Michael C. Keith is the author of a critically acclaimed memoir (The Next Better Place, 2003) published by Algonquin Books as well as two dozen monographs and several articles on electronic media subjects. He is a professor at Boston College.
©2009 Michael C. Keith
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