The Altar of Her Love

"I guess you're right. Maybe I can come later on, after you're settled in a little more. It's just that I won't have anything to do, and the thought of sitting around in this apartment for the next month in the middle of winter is just about the most depressing thought ever. Nobody's hiring around here, except maybe bartending jobs, and I just don't want to go back to that right now." There was another long pause.

"Tom, why don't you just do something fun? Something you couldn't otherwise do? You love music -- why not do something with that."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Move to the Cities. Get some mindless job to occupy your days, and just spend your nights listening to bands in clubs. You'd enjoy that wouldn't you?"

"Damn right, I would!" I paused and thought about what she'd just said. "You know what, Erin? That's a fucking great idea! I can find some job, doing whatever the fuck. All I have to do is make enough money to pay for food, rent, beer, and cover charges. I've got a few friends up there right now. I could probably live with somebody I know there. Fuck, that's a great idea! Then, at the end of the summer, I'll move back and finish school."

"That sounds like a plan!"

"There's only one problem with that, Erin, and it's a pretty big problem. How am I going to see you? You'd be five hours away."

Again, there was a long pause. "I'm sure we'll be able to get together at some point. Once I've graduated, I'll be looking for a job. There's even a chance that I'll have the summer free. I'm sure we'll see each other."

We went on like that for a while longer, but except for her suggestion that I should cut loose and have some fun, there really wasn't anything else in the conversation that made me feel anything but nervous about our relationship moving forward. I hung up, and then started trying to figure out what I was going to do.

After I finished my final week of work at Hector's, I didn't have much choice -- with so little notice to find another job, I filed for unemployment benefits. I was told a few weeks after I did, that John thought that "tacky" on my part. I told the bearer of said message -- Gary, the manager at The Bike Club Pub -- that he could tell John that under the circumstances, I thought it was tacky on his part to have accused me of such a thing.

Of course, that message was never delivered -- Gary wasn't going to risk pissing John off to satisfy me, and I don't blame him. Still, as far as I was concerned, I had been the epitome of loyalty, and now, John considered me disloyal because, not taking kindly to being shit on, I did the only thing I could do?

Right after New Year's, I called a friend of mine, Jon Bartelt over in Minneapolis, wondering if there was any chance I might be able to live with him for six months or so. I explained my whole situation, and my wish to spend some time just immersing myself in the Twin Cities music scene, and as luck would have it, his roommate had just moved out.

Jon had an extra bedroom in a funky, little house he was sharing with his girlfriend Deb on Grand Avenue in South Minneapolis, and he was all in on the whole band idea. In fact, that was pretty much what he was already doing, though, truth be told, Jon did have a real job working at the University of Minnesota as a research biologist. It was a job he needed to show up for every morning -- a real career.

Still, that didn't much slow him down -- Jon could party with the best of them, and I've never seen anyone who could exist on as little sleep as he got. I'd closed plenty of bars with him, then watched him get up and make it to work bright and early the next morning, not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but at least functional.

I ended up accepting unemployment benefits for only a month, then moved out of the apartment above The College, and got the hell out of Dodge. I found a job in Minneapolis right away. It was a piece of shit gig, inventorying medical equipment at Abbott-Northwestern Hospital, but that was where Deb worked as a nurse, and she had helped me to get it. It didn't pay very much, but I was grateful nonetheless.

As it turned out, I had to be to work an hour before Jon every morning, so closing the bars every night downtown, or in Dinkytown over by the university, or in Uptown turned out to be a true test of my endurance. But I was more than up for the challenge.

I ended up having a great time, and over the next seven months, I saw a million bands, bands from right there in the Twin Cities and all over the world, bands that expanded my interests and redefined everything I thought about music. In short, bands that knocked my socks off.

But if living in Minneapolis was everything I could have hoped for, my romance with Erin was nothing I would have wished on my worst enemy. I kept calling her every few days, but the phone conversations became more and more disappointing, and she sounded less and less happy to hear from me with every subsequent call.

The discontent was at least somewhat subtle -- she always said she was glad I'd called and that she missed me, but every time I offered to drive down to see her, even just for an afternoon, she always had some excuse, something she had to do, papers to correct, some reason it wouldn't work for her. So, winter turned to spring, and we still hadn't seen each other.

If she didn't want to be with me, I wish she would have just said something, but that was not really in Erin's character. She was, I learned pretty early on, a person who avoided conflict like the plague, and so every time I asked if there was something wrong, if she was mad at me, if I had done something to upset her, I got these kind of pathetic explanations that did little to convince me of their sincerity.

Finally, in May, I resolved that I needed to know where I stood, and that was when I decided I had my best chance to see her and get things cleared up once and for all. She was graduating around the third week of the month on a Saturday, so I knew she would be coming back to Eau Claire that weekend, only 90 miles away.

I figured I could drive over in the morning, go to commencement exercises, then take her out to eat or something. Then, if things went well, maybe drive back to the Cities together or get a hotel room. I knew her family would be coming up, but I didn't know how long they'd stay. I even thought maybe she would want to introduce me to them. But honestly, all I really hoped for was to see her get her diploma, something I knew she'd worked hard for, and then spend the rest of the weekend in bed kissing her.

I kept calling to make arrangements to meet up, but she never answered my calls. I even left a handful of messages on her answering machine, and still she never called me back. Finally, after a week of being ignored, that Saturday in May arrived, and I decided "fuck it", I would just show up there and have it out.

Grabbing the bull by the horns, I hoped, would result in one of two unequivocal ends. Either it would result in the termination of our relationship, while simultaneously affording me the opportunity to unburden myself of my disappointment and resentment to her face. Or better yet, it would call a blissful conclusion to our long and frustrating separation, replacing that frustration with a passionate weekend of lovemaking that would resurrect our faltering romance. Either way, the matter would be resolved.

So, late that Saturday morning I drove over to Eau Claire, found one of the few remaining parking spots within walking distance, and then strolled through about four parking lots until I entered the front doors of W. L. Zorn Arena. There were probably about 3000 people inside, and that's without the graduates, so it wasn't as if I was likely to be able to see Erin in that mass of exuberant, hopeful energy.

But, worse come to worse, I figured, when they called her name, I would be able to follow her visually back to her seat, and then afterwards, I could watch her, where she was in that mass of a thousand other undergraduate and graduate students as they recessed out to the strains of "Pomp and Circumstance." After that, I figured it wouldn't be that difficult to trail her outside, and then I'd just walk up and surprise her.

I took a seat at the very top of the bleachers about a thousand miles from the stage, and waited a half an hour for commencement to commence. Throughout the whole ceremony, I kept thinking about my own situation, and as crazy as I know it sounds, I think it was probably a good thing for me to have to have to have sat through that whole three-hour long affair.

Not that it was enjoyable in any way -- the same old, tired, hackneyed speeches; the fucking obnoxious air horns; parents, siblings, and friends holding those silly signs, all of it going on and on. On the other hand, it did motivate me to want to finish school myself, so I, too, could join the august parade of goofy fucks wearing black mortar-board cap and gowns, and blue and gold hoods, walking across the stage to receive their diplomas in those spiffy, blue, vinyl holders, each a freshly printed seal of approval -- formal approbation, not unlike the blue ink of the Grade A USDA stamp on every chuck roast or T-bone steak in the meat department at Festival Foods.

When they called Erin's name, I saw her stride crisply across the stage to accept her diploma and then turn smiling to wave to the other side of the bleachers to some place where I could barely make out a little flurry of applause and excitement that signaled her family members' delighted endorsement of her accomplishment.

I was able to make my way down to the bottom few rows of the bleachers as the graduates recessed out of the gym accompanied by Sir Edward Elgar's ubiquitous march, and, when I did, I took note of some red-headed dude, with long, curly locks that was about six and half feet tall. He was directly in front of her. I figured wherever she and her family gathered in the plaza outside the arena, he would be nearby and would serve as the next best thing to an impossible-to-miss, physical landmark by which to find her.

When I got outside, I had to walk around for a little while before I spotted the red-headed stranger several dozen yards ahead of me, but when I did, sure enough, there was Erin standing nearby, hugging a pretty, brunette woman that bore a striking resemblance to her. Gathered immediately around them were a handsome man in his 50s with unmistakably Irish characteristics, and a passel of animated, young men and women of varying ages that numbered more than a half dozen, each with similarly distinctive Celtic features.

Just as I made my way through four or five other groups of people clustered tightly together in pods of individual celebrations until I was only ten or fifteen feet away, I saw Erin break her mother's embrace and, turning and craning upwards on tip-toes, accept a long and passionate kiss from a tall, massively built young man, who, even though his back was to me, was someone I recognized, someone whose very presence there dashed every hope I had in coming to see her. My heart dropped and very nearly, it seemed to me, fell out of my chest.

I stopped dead in my tracks, and I wanted, more than anything at that moment, to be someplace else -- someplace, any place, far, far away -- and yet, for some reason, I didn't move. I couldn't move. I stood there staring, gawking, like some moron who has come upon a horrible accident on the side of the road, and despite the gory, disgusting, twisted wreck with its shattered glass, jagged, misshapen chunks of steel, and lumps of human flesh lying in puddles of blood, cannot look away.

I don't know how long I remained there -- it might as well have been a lifetime -- but just as she was about to break her embrace, she saw me -- looked right at me. The look in her eyes left little doubt that she was stunned by my presence. It was confirmed by the expression on the rest of her face, an expression that conveyed an almost encyclopedic comprehension of her own betrayal and treachery.

And then she tried to break away from him, to come to me, and that is when I ran, literally ran. I very nearly knocked an older woman to the ground as I turned, and then began dodging and ducking bodies of every size and shape, as I pushed and shoved my way through the crowd to get away. I didn't slow down until I was in another parking lot several hundred yards from the scene of the crime.

And then, I just kept walking -- still as fast as I could, though I was no longer avoiding bodies -- while I shook my head from side-to-side in amazement at my own incontrovertible stupidity and her unforgivable deceit. After five minutes or so, I found my Volkswagen, and it was nothing short of a miracle that I did not hit someone -- another driver or a pedestrian -- as I sped off campus and back to Interstate 94 West and the safety of another city in another state, where I could hide out in shame for three more months.

She tried calling me that night. I didn't answer. I didn't ever answer, even though dozens of calls continued for another two weeks, along with a good half dozen, extended messages of apology left on my answering machine.

I don't know how she found out how to write me. I suspect she must have phoned the post office in Eau Claire to get my forwarding address, but on a Saturday in the first week of June, a letter, postmarked from Watertown, Wisconsin, arrived in the mailbox.

At first, I wasn't going to read it. What was the point, I asked myself? I even waited an entire day, while I debated throwing it in the kitchen garbage can where it could be soiled in a repulsive stew of spent coffee grounds, potato peels, egg shells, and bacon grease, the byproducts of another Sunday morning breakfast that Deb made to console me.

But I suppose it was inevitable that I would read it. It was a little like my pathetic, ogling stare in the Zorn Plaza after graduation that late afternoon in May -- as much as I didn't want to see, I knew I couldn't resist looking.

Finally, that night I barricaded myself in my room where neither Jon nor Deb could witness my absurdly maudlin schmaltz. The stylish, cursive handwriting on the envelope -- handwriting that I recognized from dozens and dozens of post-it notes that were left for me on the cash registers at Hector's, not to mention a birthday card, thank you card, and Christmas card -- gave way to even more stylish cursive writing on three pages of thick, cotton-bonded stationery inside. I began reading.

Tom,

I know that you might not ever read this, and I understand why you won't talk to me. I'm afraid that could mean that I'll never be able communicate what it is that I want and need to say to you. I hope and pray that's not the case, but if it is, I know it's my fault. Anyway, if you do read this, I want you to understand my reasons for writing. I send this letter, not because I expect you to absolve me of my guilt, but because you deserve an explanation for my actions.

There is nothing I can say that can make up for what I did or, maybe more accurately, what I did not do, but as much as it pains me to admit it, Tom, I'm writing for my own benefit as much as yours. For the sake of my own conscience, it is important for me to try, however ineffectually, to make amends for my mistakes. I don't expect you to forgive me, but I hope God will, and maybe this letter will help Him to do so.

That said, what I'm about to say, Tom, is not what I'm guessing you want to hear. You want to hear that we can be together, that you and I can be lovers again, as we once were. I can't tell you that, because it simply cannot be, at least not right now. I know you care enough about the truth that you would rather I told you an unpleasant truth than an agreeable lie. Maybe someday I will be able to say what you want me to say, but right now, I can't do that.

What I do need to say, I know with certainty, will disappoint you, maybe even anger you, but it is the truth, and with all my heart, I want you to know this. Even if we cannot be lovers, I still care about you, I admire you deeply, and I am profoundly grateful for the short time we had together.

I owe you an awful lot. I probably learned more from you than from anyone other than my own parents. I suspect that such a compliment will fall on deaf ears, because I know you wanted to be my lover, not my teacher.

But whether you realize it or not, you are an amazing teacher. This reality makes what I'm about to say that much more ironic, because I think your greatest gift to me was that you didn't ever try to teach me. Instead, you did your very best to show me.

You showed me how to believe in something so strongly that you were willing to risk your own well-being to stand up for what you held dear. You showed me what loyalty is, and why it is so important to honor a commitment. You showed me how people should be treated, and, conversely, how they sometimes must be treated once they have abdicated their rights through their own incivility. And lastly, and most importantly, you showed me what it means to be selfless, kind, and loving.

Next fall, I'm going to begin a career as a teacher, and if ever I expect to be successful in that endeavor, I know that I cannot base my teaching on the false belief that its sole goal is to imbue students with knowledge. Knowing things, no matter how profound they are, rarely has much value. Being able to do something with that knowledge, no matter how seemingly insignificant, is worth the price of gold. You showed me that truth, rather than wasting my time trying to teach it to me.

But I know that admiration and gratitude are not what you want from me, Tom. So maybe, you'll be happier to know, that I also genuinely love you. I could tell that you loved me from the start, loved me without expecting anything in return from me, and I had never been loved before, not really, not by anyone other than my own family. I know that love not returned when offered freely and unconditionally is a sin, and I already have enough sins to atone for. I don't need to add another one to my list. So, I do love you, but right now my love for you, though deep as the deepest ocean and as long as the greatest river, is platonic, not romantic. I don't know why that is so. I just know it is.

I have long wanted to say all these things to you, Tom, but I was too afraid to do so because I knew they would hurt you. Quite unintentionally, not telling you ended up hurting you even more. So mostly, I wanted to tell you how sorry I am.

Perhaps my greatest regret is how you ended up finding out, Tom. As I said, I never intended to hurt you, certainly not publicly and certainly not on a celebratory occasion, but my cowardice was stronger than even I knew, and whether or not it is any consolation to you, please know that I turned the proudest day of my life into the most shameful one, and all because I couldn't be honest with someone who cared about me more than I deserved. You don't have to forgive me, but I do want you to know that I can never forgive myself for what I did to you.

I can't explain why I went back to Ryan. I don't really know why myself, but it is something that I chose to do of my own free will. Call me superficial; call me stupid; call me ignorant. I'm certain that I am all those things and many others, much worse. Maybe my decision is a mistake -- only time will tell. But right or wrong, I have no excuse for not having been honest with you, not telling you as soon as I went back to him. I owe you a great many things, Tom, but first and foremost, I owed you honesty.