He Never Noticed

Before he could respond, they heard a faint Yeet and turned to see Rose walking out from behind a bush about 50 yards away. She gave them two thumbs up, then started jogging back to the office building. They turned to each other and mouthed Yeet? Rose explained later that afternoon.

That day broke through his shields, and he soon let Miryam into his heart. They started dating, but soon would just cocoon in either his apartment or hers and try to learn more about each other—including anatomically. A month after they first kissed, she called a halt during a steamy session.

"It would be so easy to keep going, but I promised myself at my bat mitzvah that I would wait until my wedding night to give away my virginity. We can learn all about each other's bodies and do intimate things, but please don't try to persuade me to break that promise." He promised he would not, but was delighted as they continued learning and doing. The alarm bells were shutting down.

At the end of her apartment lease the following month, she moved in with him. Less than two months after that he proposed as they sat on his couch after dinner. She threw her arms around him, but before she said "Yes" she sighed "Finally!" They both giggled—he hadn't giggled since he was six years old—then she asked where her ring was.

He grinned. "Your ring?" When she smacked him upside the head (gently, of course), he got the blue velvet box from between the couch cushions and showed her the smallish diamond ring. Then he turned serious and grasped her left hand. "Miryam Silver, will you join me in holy matrimony, forsaking all others, to have and to hold 'til death do us part?"

"Oh yes, forever and ever to the end of time." Once again she smile-cried, tears of splendid joy coursing down her cheeks. Taking the ring from the box, he slid it on her fourth finger and tried to ignore the single tear that leaked from each eye. He had never been so happy.

In the next few days they told the parents up north—hers in Cincinnati, his in Des Moines—then the next two weekends flew to make the obligatory visits. The mothers immediately started long-distance wedding planning via email, skype, even a few old-fashioned telephone calls, quickly agreeing that it would happen in Cincinnati and divvying up all the crucial details such as flowers, photographer, videographer, reception venue, caterer, centerpieces, and the like.

Miryam proved remarkably unconcerned about leaving such momentous minutiae for others to decide. All they reserved for themselves were the choice of ceremony—civil, to the dismay of all parental units); co-officiants—a retired judge friend of Miryam's father and a Buddhist priest; venue—Fountain Square in downtown Cincinnati; music at the reception—no hip-hop or country; and attendants—maid of honor and best man, two other attendants each.

They all agreed on a date six months off. His calendar immediately began to slow down as he anticipated the ceremony and—even more so—their wedding night. Though they shared a bed, they steadfastly honored her limit. As the date drew near, time passed even more slowly for him. He had no way of knowing, of course, that the mothers' stress levels were growing mightily because there just wasn't enough time to handle all the details.

Then, a month before the wedding date, his manager dropped a bomb: an oil rig in the North Sea had been damaged by a particularly violent storm; he had to go assess the damage and prepare a rehabilitation plan. He would fly to London, then to Aberdeen. Depending on the weather, he would be taken to the rig either by helicopter or crew boat.

It was decided he would go by helicopter because the trip was so much quicker and the weather was so iffy. Trying not to think about Piper Alpha, he flinched as the copter, buffeted about by gusty winds, settled onto the rig; the pilot took off immediately he deplaned. After putting his gear in the guest quarters, he checked in with the maintenance chief and got a rundown on the damage.

During the briefing, the wind picked up and light started fading as another storm moved over them. They decided his inspection tour could wait until morning, when things had calmed down. But things didn't calm down. The wind strengthened; workers wearing rig survival gear moved about using safety lines, making sure everything was well secured. When they took shelter below, he decided to retreat to his cabin.

As he was opening the door, the sound of something metal and heavy falling on the deck echoed through the quarters. He tried to email Miryam, but was greeted by No Connection. Moments later a voice announced over the PA system that a crane had toppled, destroying all their antennas. Until they were replaced, their only means of communication was a satellite phone linked to emergency services in Aberdeen.

The storm raged for two days. Powerful winds and 60- to 70-foot waves wrought even more damage. When it finally cleared on the third day, he was immediately caught up in surveying the damage. After an exhausting five hours, he returned to his cabin. Replacement antennas had been jury-rigged, so their wi-fi was back. He quickly emailed Miryam that he was okay, then tried to skype, but there was no response. He emailed again and asked her to reply as soon as she could.

Another two days passed with no response from Miryam. He set up a telephone link over the net and called her cell, but it went straight to voice mail. He managed to call her parents in Cincinnati and ask if they knew where Miryam was. When they said they hadn't heard anything, he asked them to try to get in touch with her and ask her to email or skype him. They told him they would, but sounded evasive.

SOMETHING WASN'T RIGHT. He rushed through his damage inventory, and told the maintenance supervisor that he had to return to complete his report and would leave when the next helicopter delivered repair parts. Less than two hours later he was on his way back to Aberdeen, and 18 hours after that pulled into his apartment complex, worried about what he might find.

He drove into the garage; Miryam's Prius was in its usual spot. Trying to stay calm, he opened the door into the dark kitchen and turned on the light with shaking hand. As usual, it was spotless, everything tucked away in drawers and cupboards, the stove cold, the coffee maker unplugged. He turned on the living room light and found the same, almost preternatural neatness. The apartment felt empty.

He went into the bedroom, also clean but empty of life, and noticed a letter on the bed, his name written in Miryam's clear, minuscule hand. As he returned to the kitchen, he could picture her sitting with fountain pen and paper, writing so very carefully. He sat at the table for minutes—it felt like hours—before opening the envelope and taking out three folded sheets. There was no salutation.

The telephone rang two days after you left for Scotland. I thought it might be you so I answered, but a man said "Hello, Miryam. I hope you are well." His voice sounded somewhat familiar, but I could not place it. Before I could respond, he said I should sit down "because you know I would never want you to be hurt, Mira." I collapsed onto a kitchen chair. Only one person had ever called me Mira, but even though I now recognized his voice, that was impossible. Ari was dead.

Ari Levine's family rented the house across the street from us the summer after my sixth grade. We quickly became friends, not just because there were so few Jews in our school but also because we immediately liked each other. We started dating in high school, and soon became exclusive. The summer before our senior year, we secretly pledged that we would marry as soon as we started college, but would wait until our wedding night to make love.

We never told anyone, but our abiding love was obvious. My parents were happy that I was happy, but Ari's parents were not pleased. They made no secret of their disapproval, but never explained it. Our high school graduation should have been a joyous occasion, but Ari's mother and father dragged him off immediately after the ceremony, keeping us from any sort of celebration.

Our summer was strained because of their open disapproval. They didn't forbid that Ari see me, but still made it clear they thought he was making a serious mistake. We could hardly wait until we left for college and all that awaited us there, but it wasn't to be. July 14, Bastille Day, I went to Ari's house for our morning jog in the park, but the house was empty.

They were gone. No one saw them leave. They must have prepared for quite a while, no one can just disappear on a whim, but they never told anyone. Ari never said a word to me, he just disappeared.

I did not know what to do. I wanted to run into my room and lock the door and never come out. I wanted to take my father's credit card and car and never stop searching until I found him. I wanted to die.

Instead, I cried for most of a week, then apologized to my parents, realized I was going to live whether I wanted to or not, and told myself that I would never love again. I left for college at the end of the summer, did well in my classes, but had few friends and virtually no social life.

Just before the end of the school year, the terrible news came: Ari and his parents were among 11 people killed in a rocket attack on a kibbutz in Israel.

I learned later that his parents had sold or given away almost all they owned, then took Ari with them to start a new life in a small kibbutz on the Golan Heights. They had no internet connection or telephone, just a two-way radio in a locked room. Ari was not allowed to leave the kibbutz, had no way to tell me where he was or what had happened. Now he was dead, and I was sure my life was over.

My life changed when I met you. Not suddenly, but gradually you brought me to realize that my life wasn't over, that I could still smile, even laugh and be happy, that I could look forward to a long life, children, and G-d willing, grandchildren. For the first time in a long time, I was happy.

But Ari is alive, and now my life, our lives, must change yet again. He was not killed in the rocket attack, he was badly injured and suffered major head trauma. He wandered off and was found by the Syrian rebels who had launched the rocket attack on the kibbutz in the mistaken belief that the people there were informing the Syrian government about rebel activities. They could tell he wasn't Israeli, but he couldn't speak and was very weak, so they took him back to their encampment just across the border and treated him as best they could.

He recovered from his wounds but still couldn't speak, so his captors had no idea who he was. They had to move their operations twice because of attacks by Syrian forces. After about six months they were finally overrun. Most of the rebel fighters were killed, but Ari was captured and eventually taken to Damascus. After a year he regained his power of speech, but it took almost four more years for his brain to recover sufficiently for him to remember what had happened.

One night not long after he told them who he was, he was given a Syrian passport and some Lebanese money, then flown in a helicopter to a desolate spot about 15 miles east of Beirut just south of the Beirut-Damascus highway. He made his way to the American embassy in Beirut and, after convincing them of his identity, was issued a US passport and allowed to fly to Tel Aviv. From there he finally was able to make it to the US.

Ari is not just alive, he is here, he still loves me, and he wants me to come with him back to Israel to carry out that pledge of marriage we made years ago. I now know that I never stopped loving him, I simply tucked his memory away and tried to forget. Now he, my first love, my lost love, is found. He not only still loves me, he needs me, to fill the emptiness left by the death of his parents, to build a new family.

I am torn, I ache, I hate this dreadful dilemma. I know that my leaving will cause you great pain, but staying would cause great pain both to Ari and to me. My grieving intensified the love for him that I had so carefully compartmentalized, and now it has surged back to consume me. Despite the pain I know it will inflict on you, I must follow my heart and go with him.

I know this must seem terribly unfair, even cruel. You have always been so empathetic, so aware of others' emotions and needs, I hope that empathy eventually allows you to understand why I must be with Ari. I hope and pray that you find someone who will make you happy, who will join you to create the family you so richly deserve. I hope and pray also that your memories of me eventually will be more about the good and happy times we shared, not this painful parting.

I will always love you, but Ari completes me. Please forgive me.

Shalom,

Miryam

Carefully refolding the letter and replacing it in the envelope, he sat unmoving for a while, then went to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of orange juice, and sat back down. He drank half the orange juice before taking the letter out and reading it again, then refolded it, put it back in the envelope, and finished the orange juice. He sat there all night long, taking the letter out and reading it every half hour or so, always refolding it and putting it back. When the sun rose, he read the letter one last time, left it unfolded on the table, then showered, shaved, dressed, and left for work.

He never noticed his neighbor waving goodbye when he backed out of the garage. As he drove his familiar route, he never noticed the cars waiting to turn left or pull onto the street, or the yellow light that turned red just as he entered an intersection, the one-fingered salute when he turned right in front of the cyclist just behind him in the bike lane, or even the angry horns honking when he cut into the front of the long line waiting to turn into the BP parking lot. The commute from his apartment in Sugar Land usually took around 40 minutes; he never noticed that this time it was closer to half an hour.

He never noticed the woman behind him when he let the door into the building close in her face, the muttered oaths when he left the paper jam in the copier, the puzzled looks when he left his tray and dirty dishes on the table in the cafeteria. Driving home after work, he never noticed the frightened face of the mother pushing a stroller when he stopped at a red light blocking the crosswalk, or the elderly man looking with dismay at the flat tire on his car parked beside the road, or the angry looks when he parked in a handicapped spot and dashed into a C-store for a six-pack of Shiner Bock.

As he was changing out of his work clothes, he did notice that he got home a bit earlier than usual, which pleased him. He decided he would find ways to cut his commute even shorter.

Epilogue

HE RETIRED FROM BP and moved to Florida, never made any close friends, never laughed out loud, never married, never even spent any time alone with a woman without having to pay her.

He never noticed that no one ever again called him a nice guy. Every day for the rest of his life, somewhere in Brazil a butterfly stopped fluttering in mid-flight and drifted in death down to the jungle floor.

He died half-way through his 89th year. No one noticed.