Sweet Closeness

That evening we discovered a closeness so subtle we didn’t know it was there.

Together’s Better

By Erma Bombeck

At the altar waiting for me was a man I met in secondary school. We had no car, no place to live, no furniture, and no sterling-silver pattern. Bill didn’t even have a job. He had a year left at university. Here I was two weeks after graduating from university walking down the aisle without a job. Then I met the gaze of my bridegroom, and poverty and unfulfilled dreams seemed unimportant. What was the matter with me? I loved the man.

I knelt by his side and observed him through my veil. He had a smattering of white paint on his ear from painting houses for extra money. The faint odor of turpentine hung over him. That would have to change. I also made a mental note to let his hair grow out. I hated his short hair. The man definitely needs work, I thought, but I had years ahead to mold him into the husband he was capable of being.

His best man and poker-playing buddy, Ed Phillips, passed him the ring. I smiled as Bill slipped it on my finger. Ed and his friends were soon to be part of the past. No more single life, playing poker until all hours in the morning. From here on in, it would be just the two of us watching sunsets and gazing into each other’s eyes.

As our shoulders touched, I was challenged by the idea of setting up a schedule for him. All the years we had been dating, he had been late for everything. I was vowing to spend eternity with a man who had never been on time.

“I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU MAN AND WIFE”

With the possible exceptions of “We have liftoff” and “This country is at war,” there are few phrases as sobering.

The reception was a blur. Around four, I looked for Bill. Outside in the parking lot, I spotted him with Ed and the whole gang of his buddies laughing and drinking beer and setting up a poker game for the moment he got back from the honeymoon. It was going to be harder than I thought.

In the years that followed, I occasionally allowed myself to think of the promise I had made to myself at the altar – to create a husband who would be totally compatible. It was very discouraging. Bill still had the short hair cut, and he was still late for everything. He continued to keep in touch with all his old friends.

Then one Sunday, we were visiting Ed and his wife. Ed announced he was going to have open-heart surgery the next week. He was pretty cavalier about it, so we were too. We’d get together when he was up and about.

Ed never came home. Hours after surgery he died, at the age of 33.

When we heard the news, we didn’t know what to do. Neither of us had ever handled pain of such magnitude. Our contemporaries weren’t supposed to die. Our grand-parents? Of course. Our parents? Possibly. But not our generation.

Bill went off by himself. My reaction was instinctive. I gathered my friends around me. Not Bill, but my friends. With them, feelings came out easily. They were shocked and compassionate and said all the right things, but somehow I was not comforted. I needed intimacy and warmth.

The house was quiet. As I passed the doorway to our bedroom I could see the silhouette of my husband sitting on the bed, shoulders slumped and head bowed. He looked so alone. I wanted to carry some of the hurt, but I didn’t know how.

Here was a man with whom I had now shared three children, and home and a life for 12 years. And yet we didn’t know each other well enough to cry together.

Our marriage had never taken either of us at this level before. It had always been like a business with each of us carrying out our individual roles. He was the provider, and I was the nurturer who could handle anything. Not to handle it was perceived as a weakness.

I was about to reach out and touch his shoulder, but instead I started to walk away. Then his voice broke the silence. “We used to play in the dirt together in the alley behind the garage,” he said quietly.

I made a place for myself beside him on the edge of the bed. “He arranged our first date with each other,” I added.

Slowly, awkwardly, with tears streaming down our faces, we reached out. Neither of us knew how much strength we had to give, but we were willing to share it. We gave each other something that most friendships are not able to give – vulnerability. Throughout our years together, we had built up a history and a closeness so subtle even we didn’t know it was there. On that evening, we admitted we couldn’t handle this life alone. We needed each other.

For the second time, Ed had brought us together.