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8 ...you look through the years and see what you could have been, oh, what
you might have been, if you had had more time...  Take The Long Way Home
   I believe Marjorie knew how much time Rose was spending at the
clubhouse, but I didn't think she had any idea that most of that time was
spent with me, or how close we had become.  At the meet and greet, I could
tell Marjorie had had a few drinks before she came, because she seemed a
little unsteady, and at the clubhouse bar she had mixed herself some kind
of cocktail and was nursing it along.  While Rose fed quarters into the Ms.
Pac-man machine (knowing she could go get the key and get her quarters back
once she was alone), Marjorie chatted me up, leaning in just a little too
close and putting her hand on my back just a little too often.  I tried to
pretend she was hitting on me, but I knew it wasn't really so; the sense of
her slipping sobriety was all the explanation I needed.  She got so close
that I could actually feel the warmth of her body on my skin, and the feel
of her fingers in the small of my back got my attention like nothing else
would have.  I wanted to return the gesture, to put my fingers on her back,
to be able to feel her, to have that contact (however briefly), as a
promise, a prelude to something more; wanted it so badly, was burning with
it, a man on fire, but I didn't dare, didn't trust myself, didn't trust the
situation.  Still, it fueled a pleasant daydream in which I was dating
Marjorie and being a father to Rose.  Marjorie told me about her divorce,
seemingly reluctant to discuss it yet somehow driven to get it out; as if
she owed me some kind of backstory on the little girl I was seeing so much
of.  Stan had made a game effort to keep in touch with Rose, Marjorie
admitted, as they fled (her word) from one place to another; at least for
the first handful of months.  Stan sent birthday cards and Christmas gifts,
and he actually talked to Rose on the phone two or three times, but he
could never get anything worked out to come and see her, or to have her
visit him.  In the end, Stan had just drifted out of the picture.  Marjorie
hadn't wanted any alimony or child support, because she honestly just
wanted to put Stan behind her forever.  Many times she regretted that
decision, especially when she got laid off from one menial job after
another and had to keep starting over somewhere else.  As her confession
trailed off, her eyes seemed to go out of focus, roving about the
clubhouse. When she had made a full circuit of the room, her gaze came back
to rest on me, and she put a hand on my back, rubbing briefly (!) and
moving up to rest the hand on my shoulder (!).  She leaned in
consipiratorially, until her mouth was only inches from my ear; but when
she spoke, it was in a normal conversational tone of voice.  She thanked me
for befriending Rose, and something in the way she worded it made it sound
like I was doing it out of some kind of honor or pity or nobility.  She was
grateful beyond words (she said) for having me around to treat her daughter
so nicely.  I realized then that Rose had been telling her mother about me;
the tiny alarm got a little louder at the thought of her finding Rose and
me alone in my room, but I had started to get pretty good at muffling the
alarm, and this was just one more.  Marjorie admitted that she didn't have
as much time for Rose as she should have, and she genuinely regretted
robbing Rose of a stable childhood.  She had a steadier job now than what
she had been surviving on, and it looked like she was actually going to be
able to stay put for a while.  Even so, she was gratified that Rose should
have made such a good friend of me.  She'd rather have her daughter
spending time in a clean place close by with a decent guy like me to look
out for her, than out there, who knows where, doing who knows what, with
who knows what kind of creeps.  I wasn't quite sure how to take it that I
had been granted status as "not one of the creeps".  I supposed it was
comforting, to think that something about me encouraged that kind of trust.
  
rj_chapter08