by Rayne Ayers-Debski

(U.S.A)

For our first wedding anniversary, when we believed the war could be stopped by marches on the capital and campus demonstrations, you gave me a pair of earrings, sterling silver peace symbols that danced in the light. I pulled my thick chestnut hair into a knot at the back of my neck to show them off. We made love every day, sometimes in the morning or at night in front of the TV before listening to Nixon’s excuses and the day’s body count. We could have had so many other people; getting laid was as easy as selecting a candy bar, but we chose each other.

When Nixon invaded Cambodia, you drove my sister, me, and two hippies we picked up on the New Jersey Turnpike in your Pontiac LeMans to DC to protest. We smoked weed and drank beer along the way. People did that then.

We spent our second anniversary in a cheap motel in Vermont near the Canadian border, looking at possibilities in case your deferment was cancelled. It was a cold November. Snow had fallen. We shivered in our denim jackets. You gave me a handmade water pipe. We celebrated with a block of hash and a bottle of New York State red wine in a motel room decorated with orange plastic chairs and brown shag carpet. You had a beard, which scraped against my face three or four nights a week. The other nights you spent with your buddies getting stoned.

A notice to report for active duty arrived on our third anniversary. I didn’t tell you that I’d neglected—I’m sure it was an oversight—to mail your deferment request on time. You threw a kitchen chair across the room. I’d never seen you so angry. You stormed out of the apartment while I watched, holding my breath, my arms wrapped around myself. I frantically begged my family to call the politicians they knew for help with the deferment. You took our ’69 VW Beatle and disappeared for four days. When you returned to our apartment, you said you’d been contemplating your options at your buddy’s place. You smelled of pot and someone else’s perfume. That night I burned your clothes. Two weeks later I waved the official notice over my head. “The only basic training you have to do is for the Reserves,” I said. You picked me up, swung me around, and kissed me. When you finished Reserves training, we moved to West Palm Beach.

Two weeks after our fourth anniversary, we drove to Miami. By then you’d forgotten that we’d passed another milestone. We stayed with your cousin Kevin, who had an apartment off Collins Avenue. The room reeked of dampness. His dirty laundry was piled in a corner, and the garbage can in the kitchenette overflowed with beer cans and pizza boxes. I read Joyce Carol Oates on a chartreuse fold-out couch, while you and Kevin did lines and played cards. 

The war had stopped, Nixon was gone, and our enthusiasm for social justice disappeared into bottles of Chablis. Kevin came back to West Palm with us. He let me brush his long, blonde hair while we listened to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. You zipped around on your CL360 Honda motorcycle, arranging drug pickups and distribution. Kevin stayed at our apartment over Christmas and New Year’s. We told you it was because he couldn’t go home for the holidays; he was allergic to his mother’s dog. You were too immersed in your smuggling business to care.

By our seventh anniversary, you had cut your hair, shaved your beard, and taken a job with IBM. Your former associates were either dead, in jail, or had turned legit. You drove a company car. You bought me a 10-year-old green MGB that broke down whenever I stopped for a red light. To restart, I had to open the hood and tap the flywheel with a hammer. Usually, this worked. I often wore halter tops and shorts in case it didn’t. The car’s plastic rear window was permanently fogged so I cut it out. This was ideal for our German Shepherd Bones, who would travel with us, sitting on the rear bench with his head through the missing window, fur and dog spittle flying in the breeze. 

I drove that car to my job at the small ad agency located next door to a popular biker bar. You insisted I bring Bones with me for protection. I knew anyone with a hamburger to share would have his devotion. But he did growl when my boss made unwelcome overtures on nights I worked late. I didn’t tell you that during this time I met the third richest man in the world. I kept that from you because I knew you’d want me to ask him to back one of your money-making schemes. That year for our anniversary, you gave me a celadon vase. I was dabbling in pottery, and I knew Oriental potters created the celadon glaze by combining the color green’s renewal with blue’s tranquillity in a harmonious balance. I kept the vase on our bedroom dresser, hoping it would work magic on us.

On the Saturday morning of our tenth anniversary, you went to a friend’s house to set up his stereo. We had a six o’clock dinner reservation at Taboo, and you promised to be back in time. You loved to make promises: you’d get a better job, stop doing drugs, and come home after work instead of at 2 AM. Five o’clock came and went. By six-thirty, a migraine creased my forehead. I changed from my black silk pantsuit into jeans and a tee-shirt. At seven, you walked through the door. Your clothes were wet; your lips hung limp. A dank smell clung to you like mold in a basement. My stomach tightened. You’d driven our Oldsmobile Cutlass into the West Palm reservoir. The driver-side window was wide open, and you escaped unharmed. You told the police you’d passed out. You told me you were tripping on blotter and heard God’s voice tell you to drive into the water. My breath caught as if I were the one drowning. I smashed the celadon vase you gave me years before on the patio.

These days I drive a silver BMW Z4. It’s a sporty little car with a great sound system and tight steering. I love driving it on North Carolina’s mountain roads with the top down and Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon blasting through the speakers. I haven’t seen you in a few decades. I appreciate the birthday wishes you email every year. If we stayed married, we would celebrate our fiftieth anniversary this year. I just wanted to remind you.

Copyright © 2024 – Rayne Ayers-Debski. All rights reserved.

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