~A Letter~

~A Letter~

I received a letter from a long forgotten name. Janine Norton. The president of my senior class in 1974. I remember her as annoying, self-important and incessantly busy. I and a plus one were invited to the 50 year anniversary of my graduating class. A year ago, thinking of my dead wife would have been unbearable. Now, with time, it has become more of a manageable ache. At first I dismissed the notion. I haven’t been to my home town of Newport News, Virginia since I was 18 and had lost the desire to travel. But a long dormant curiosity made me reconsider.

           After two hours of searching boxes stored over the garage, I found it. My 1974 Yearbook, the Crown. Immediately I went straight to the M’s in the senior section. There she was. Michelle Minor. The enigma of a possible missed opportunity of a lifetime. Still as gorgeous as I remember. Long blonde hair and that lovely, soulful face. I flipped to the back, scanning the Yearbook messages left by my friends of the era. Lots of cliched comments using hackneyed adjectives of the times like groovy, hip, and far out. Also many standard Remember all the crazy times in Mr. insert name here’s class. Aha! There was the one I was looking for.

At first I thought we were just exploring the boundaries of young love. Now I feel that we may have instead stumbled upon a path. Call me when I get back if you want to see where the journey takes us.

Waiting patiently,

Michelle 710-877-0344

           I wondered about her life and where she might be now. Was she unattached like me? I realized I was being ridiculous but I still couldn’t shake it. Wouldn’t hurt to just check it out, right? I called the number and not surprisingly, a total stranger answered.

           I went full investigator mode. She could easily have a different last name. I searched Google, Facebook, name registries, even paid $35 to some cheesy website, to no avail. Then I remembered where she lived. I was out riding around with the boys, drinking Ripple one night and Jeffery rode by her house. He pointed and said, “That’s where Michelle Minor lives.” It was a hell of a nice house. Conventional stately manor, right on the James River. We all oohed and aahed and made swarthy comments. All the guys knew who she was. She was that good looking.

           I remembered her Dad’s name. Ramsey Minor. He was a local big shot of sorts. Lawyer and City Councilman. I looked him up. He died in 1994. There she was in his obituary. Survived by his loving daughter, Michelle. Damn. No last name. I pulled up the property assessment website for Newport News. The owner of record since 1994 was an LLC. That didn’t mean she didn’t own it. I seemed to be out of options, short of going there and knocking on the door. This was getting silly. My wife would tell me, “You don’t know what to do? Write it down. See if it makes sense on paper.” Of course, Baby. You were always the smart one.

           I sat down at the computer and pulled up word. No, wait. I went to my old rolltop desk and opened it. Found a pen and a pack of lined notebook paper so old it literally had dust on it. Then I did something I had not done in many, many years. I wrote a letter.

           To Whom It May Concern. This letter is for Michelle Minor. She grew up in this house in the 60’s and 70’s. If you are not her or have no affiliation with her family, Please disregard.

           Dear Michelle.

           Hi. It’s a voice from the past. Tommy Fields. I’m writing you because I received an invitation to our 50^th High School Reunion and it prompted me to look you up. I remember everything like it was yesterday. Though we were in Acapella together our senior year, we had never actually spoken. Not because I didn’t want to but you were so out of my league you seemed untouchable. Ethereal even. Then two weeks before graduation, you came into the work room where I was doing something for Hattie’s concert at the table and singing “Hello It’s Me” wide open, with Todd Rundgren playing on the turntable. When it finished, I looked up and there you were.

           You said, “I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

           I was dazed and blurted, “Neither did I.” You smiled a subtle curve of the lips that was virtuous with just a hint of knowing… something. What? That was the mystery, the clincher. I heard myself asking you, “Will you go to the prom with me?”

           “I can’t. I’ve already told Chip Donner I would go with him.”

           “Of course. That was stupid. Somebody like you.”

           “No. It’s really sweet. Look, I have a lot going on. What with exams and I’m on the Prom Committee and I’m getting ready for a trip to Europe. My family is leaving the day after graduation and we won’t be back until Christmas. But let’s definitely do something. Soon.”

           I think I just said yeah. It was surreal. My Dream Girl was asking me out and it caused my cognitive functions to collapse.

           You probably don’t know this, but Chip Donner, Mr. big shot center on the football team, accosted me two days later in the smoking area. He told me to stay away from you or there would be trouble. I told him I was fine with some trouble. I would have fought the whole football team for you. My friends on the wrestling team came to my side and he backed off.

           Still we never could meet up. Then God smiled on me. After the ceremony on Graduation day we bumped into each other in the parking lot. I asked if you had plans that afternoon and you said no. You reached out your hand, smiled and said, “Let’s go exploring.”

           I drove us to my house in my old 1966 Dodge Coronet so you could meet my Beagle, Nicky. He fell for you harder than I did. No one was home and you kissed me. Next thing I know we are going hot and heavy on the couch when my mom drove up. We were dressed by the time she came in but I think she suspected what we were doing. We played frisbee in the yard until the sun set. Then I borrowed Mom’s Cadillac and we went to Joe and Mimma’s. I got pizza and you got lasagna. Afterwards we went parking at Mesmer’s beach. Being with you was better than I could ever have imagined. I told you all about my secret desire to go San Francisco and play my guitar on the street until I made it big. I also told you about the rocky years between my parents until they finally divorced and my dad moved away. You told me of your desire to travel the world and see places other people only dreamed about. Of your deep love of animals and how you eventually wanted to be a Veterinarian and rescue abused pets. We talked for hours. When I took you back to your car at the deserted stadium, we lingered, kissing and making plans for when you returned from your trip. I’m sure at this point you’re probably wondering why I never called.

           A week after I watched your plane to London take off, my Mother died unexpectedly from a brain aneurysm. I desperately wanted to contact you but being a guy, I had lost the mailing address to reach you in Europe almost immediately after you left. I went to stay with my father for the summer in Oklahoma and planned to return and go to Virginia Tech in the fall. I wasn’t really worried. Worst case, I would see you on school break when you returned from Europe at Christmas.

           My Dad was a contractor. I went to work for him as a carpenter and started making serious money. Then in July, I began dating this wonderful girl that did his books and before you know it, she got pregnant. By the time you returned at Christmas, I was married with a baby on the way. I’ve had a great life with my wife. We raised two good kids and built a successful business. She died a year ago from pancreatic cancer. It was brutal.

I thought about you often over the years, but I made my choice with no regrets. Then I received the invitation for the reunion and here we are. I have included my email, home address, cell and business phone. If you get this. (Fat chance, I know.) I would like to get in contact with you. But I understand if you are not interested. I do think I’ll go to the reunion regardless though. Might be interesting to see the old gang.

Sincerely,

Tommy Fields

**********

           So I couldn’t believe it but there I was sitting in my Ford pickup outside of the Marriot in Newport News Virginia. Michelle never contacted me. No surprise there. As we used to say, there were two chances on her getting that letter. Slim and none. And even if she had…Oh well. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. I considered leaving, but what the hell, I’m here. Just get it over with.

           I walk into the busy lobby in front of the conference room. Tables set up. Women sitting at them passing out name cards and answering questions. I’m about to walk over when I hear the song “Hello It’s Me” from behind. I turn and there is Michelle holding up her phone and singing along with it. Her once long blonde hair is now a beautiful ashen gray. Her face still lovely, but the innocence had worn away with the years. I approach her and say, “I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

           “Neither did I.” She held out her hand to me and says, “Let’s go exploring.”