Is It Really Never Too Late?

Is It Really Never Too Late?

By

Ron Merkin

Sexual attraction was out of the question. She was old enough to be his grandmother. But at some point during his fourth or fifth singing lesson a lump formed in Mike’s throat. Struggling by the seventh week to convince himself that the impulse he felt couldn't be romantic- it must only be fondness, admiration, even gratitude for the progress her lessons were bringing him - the need to unburden himself while running through vocal exercises and tackling operatic arias became so intense that the energy expended imprisoning its expression felt like the physical equivalent of lifting weights. Sexual attraction or not-Mike twenty five, Myra seventy at least-what had begun as a routine student teacher relationship intensified into a man-woman urgency for Mike. Societal norms intimidated; they thwarted and confused him. But he’d fallen in love with his singing teacher.

Justifying his resistance, Mike reasoned that sex would be awkward should some miracle make him and Myra lovers. Then watching a TV interview one night his mouth dropped open. An eighty year old woman and a twenty four year old man who’d met at a dinner party were engaged to be married.

A retired lawyer, the woman answered the interviewer’s first question by disputing his contention that her finance might be interested in marrying her so he could inherit the wealth she’d acquired during her successful career. “I have no intention of altering the will I made years before I met Rudolf” she said. And before the interviewer could continue, “Regarding what I’m sure your next question is, a sex therapist we consulted advised me to place a pillow under my buttocks to ease the penetration when making love.”

Wow. This exacerbated Mike’s discomfort.

Two days later Charley phoned him. “Since I broke up with Jill I’ve been horny as hell,” he said. “Wanna join me at one of those single bars where men and women meet and maybe do more?”

Women his own age! Normalcy! Appropriateness! Why hadn’t Mike thought of this himself, he wondered.? “Let’s do it!” he enthused. Then “As I remember it, the swingingnest place in all New York City is the It Can Happen Bar and Restaurant on Madison and 64^th Street. It’s packed with people almost every Friday.”

And there they met.

At 8:00 PM It Can Happen was not yet crowded. The second one arriving, it took Mike less than a minute to spot his friend engaged in conversation with a tall attractive woman on the left side of the establishment’s U shaped bar.

Walking toward them, Charley’s “Hey, there you are!” was shouted loud enough to embarrass Mike. And the second after she was introduced Charley’s new acquaintance glanced at her watch and mentioned that a girlfriend of her’s was due to join them any minute. Could that mean that the “maybe more” thing Charley mentioned on the phone was happening already? Could Bethany be hoping that Mike and the girlfriend she was expecting would pair off so she wouldn’t have to leave her alone while she headed for Charley’s place?

A few minutes later the girlfriend arrived. Thank goodness. Charley’s exaggerated bragging about the number of times he’d won medals while competing in track and field events had started to bore Mike.

Shorter than him, Cecilia’s long blond hair was enhanced by a wide-open welcoming smile. She appealed to Mike immediately. Laughing, getting acquainted, they were left alone after winking at Mike Charley took Bethany’s arm and guided her to the door. Feeling awkward – a little like taking unfair advantage of such a nice person – Mike asked if Cecelia might like to go back to his place. “Yes,” she responded. It was on their way that he learned she was studying to be a psychologist.

“A coincidence,” he told her. “I’m an aspiring opera singer – a tenor…” (that didn’t seem to trigger any adverse reaction) “...but I have a regular job at the City Welfare Department. That’s made me think about getting a Master of Social Work degree.”

While waiting for the subway Mike kissed Cecelia. Her response was passionate. In fact setting foot in his apartment a half hour later both waisted no time undressing each other.

But once inside Cecilia Mike couldn’t maintain his erection. Flaccid, mortified, this had never happened to him before, he realized. A muffled “Sorry” was all he could manage.

At first Cecelia didn’t say anything. Then “Is it my fault? Something about me?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well, what, in that case? Do you have this problem often?”

“Never.” Then realizing that that answer might reflect badly on Cecilia, “You’re not gonna believe what happened to me this time.”

She shrugged. “Well if you like you can give me a try,” she said.

“OK, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m in love. With my singing teacher. She’s at least seventy years old. Her image was everywhere when I was inside you.” And speaking faster: “Like a replay. I was reliving what happened during my first lesson with her. When I rang her doorbell. A tall thin woman with obviously died black hair. She opened the door. The way someone her age walked slowly, with difficulty. Across her living room to get to the piano. What could anyone her age teach me, I wondered? Then after three lessons I realized I was making more progress than I’d made with all the male teachers – young! - I’d had in the past. She got me my high C.” He started crying. “And she’s so nice. She loves teaching. I can see that when accompanying me on the piano she lowers her head to swallow because she’s moved by what we’re doing together. BUT FOR GOD’S SAKE! I’m twenty five years old! What can I do?” Bawling now, “And what does it mean that I saw all this when I was making love to you?”

A pause. Cecelia wrestled with her instinct to reach for her clothing. Then “Two things.,“ she answered him. “I don’t know you but the first is you’re so in love you felt that screwing me meant being unfaithful to your teacher. And two: you must tell her. Get it off your chest. What’s the worst that can happen? You said she’s nice. I doubt that she’d yell at you. At her age she may even be flattered.” Maybe that last part had some negative ageist connotation, Cecelia thought. But this guy needs relief from his burden. Then thinking that she should ideally put some clothing on first, she put her arm around his back and gently rubbed him up and down.

“I must strike you as some acutely abnormal nut case,” he told her.

“Well from what you’ve told me you’ve repressed a lot of feeling. As bizarre as it may seem, craziness - like a volcano - erupts from time to time.”

Leaving eventually, Cecelia gave Mike a card with her contact information. “Don’t hesitate if you feel the need to talk more about this,” she said.

Mike never contacted her. He also never expressed his feelings to Myra. Why? For one thing, he forgot to go to his next lesson. Remembering the day after where he should have been he phoned Myra and left a message on her answering machine. She never returned his call. Confusion about what to do doubling, his ambivalence and anger with himself somehow decided him to let things ride.

Two years later Mike was married. Having dated for two months he and his girlfriend decided to live together. Three months later their relationship became official. Mike had stopped singing lessons with anyone but he had earned a Master of Social Work degree. Jenny was a fellow student. That’s how they met.

With the exception of a few things that had begun annoying Mike about his wife their marriage was progressing reasonably well. Then around a year into it Mike dreamed almost the same version of the “replay” he’d experienced when trying to make love with Cecelia. The only difference was that in the dream Cecelia was his wife Jenny. And what Jenny was saying was “Tell her you love her! Get it off your chest!”

Jarred awake, sweating, at least he hadn’t jarred Jenny awake, Mike noticed. The next day he called Myra from his office. Her number was was still in his contacts file.

A man answered the phone. Sounding surprised when Mike asked to speak with Myra, he said “She died nearly a year ago. I’m the new tenant; like her, a singing teacher.” Then answering Mike’s question he said Myra had had a heart attack. So very too late, Mike thought. Also. so weird. Why after all this time should he finally want to tell Myra he’d loved her? But he wanted to. So in a better than nothing spirit he lowered his head to his meditation position. No one was nearby. No one could hear him. So “Myra, I love you. I love you, ” he repeated.

How stupid, how hollow, how meaningless / too late. But he meant it.

Isn’t that the important thing?