Date Night

Some people touch our lives in ways they may never know. My wife was one of those beautiful souls that did so without even trying. 

It’s Tuesday night—date night. My heart is heavy as I weave past the dim, crowded room to our usual four-top table in the back corner, next to a crackling fireplace: a table we have occupied every Tuesday for the past 20 some years. I open the familiar menu, though I already know what to order. 

Salvatoré, the proprietor and Chef Extraordinaire, comes to greet me with a bright smile and an outstretched hand. “Joe, so nice to see you again.” 

I shake his calloused palm and nod. “Still looking at the right side of grass." I look around the crowded room. "Busy night tonight.” The table is set for two. The white table cloth provides a stark contrast to the cobalt water glasses, matching napkins, and polished silverware. Salvatoré’s is the classiest place in La Junta, a quaint town in southwestern Colorado. 

I look across the table where my Gracie used to sit. My throat tightens and tears glaze my eyes. I feel hollow inside as if only the shell of me exists here.

Salvatoré squeezes my hand. "I’ll get you some wine." 

In a choked voice, I answer, "Grazie amico mio. (Thank you, my friend)" 

"Piacere mio, (My pleasure)" he answers. It was Gracie’s insistence that we learned Italian, Spanish, Russian and Gaelic so that we could better communicate with people while we traveled to seemingly every corner of the world. She had an affinity for language, something that seemed to never be quenched. 

As I look around the dining room and recognize many of the patrons, my heart swells; living in a small town for over 50 years does this to you. It used to take us twenty minutes to find our table because Gracie had to stop and greet everyone we knew. George smiles back at me, as does Kate and Bill. My heart tells me I should go over to talk to them, but I cannot bring myself to do so. Forcing a smile, I politely nod my head.

Salvatoré brings me two glasses of Pinot Grigio and a glass of ice. He sets the ice and a glass of wine at Gracie’s end, before serving mine. My darling Gracie used to empty an entire glass of ice into her wine. She said it made it last longer that way. In truth, her ulcers had worsened to the point where she could no longer tolerate the wine neat, though she would never admit it.

I order the shrimp scampi and the spaghetti Bolognese for Gracie. It was her favorite. I chuckle and think to myself, how strange it is that I still order wine and food for her. She passed away one month, 18 days, 4 hours and 16 minutes ago, but it seems like only yesterday. Before her life faded from this world, she had made me promise to keep our date night without falter, and to bring our dear friend Marjie a “properly packaged” meal to go—her favorite—Chicken Alfredo with Angel Hair pasta and honey drizzled carrots. Being here without Gracie seems so wrong, but a promise is a promise. 

"Would you like a box for later?" asks Salvatoré, but he already knows the answer. 

I nod, “Chicken Alfredo, with proper presentation, please.” 

Salvatoré bows slightly. “Of course.” His smile remains, but the sadness in his eyes reflect my own. He lost his wife Maria a year ago, and understands the emptiness that plagues me now. 

I lift my wine glass toward the empty chair across from me and declare “ваше здоровье (Vashe zdorov'ye).” In my mind, I hear Gracie say back to me, “Sláinte is táinte.” She was Russian and I am Irish, so we always saluted each other in our respective mother tongue. I sip my wine and enjoy the tart, floral taste on my tongue. 

Angelo, a young man learning the ropes of food service, sets a basket of bread before me, along with a dish of balsamic vinegar and seasoned olive oil. He’s a thin, skittish boy, but he’s polite and works hard to please. “Enjoy Mr. Dougherty.” He came over from Sicily a few years ago and Salvatoré took him in. Angelo was struggling to learn English, so my Gracie tutored the boy in exchange for learning Italian; though she already spoke it fluently.  

“Thank you, Angelo.” 

The low hum of conversation fills my ears. People are laughing and conversing, unaware of Gracie’s obvious absence. Do they not sense the huge hole in this place? The emptiness in my heart? How could they go on laughing, living, having children, and taking vacations when Gracie is no longer a part of this world?

The fire crackles and sparks before me, as if Gracie is chastising my foul mood. 

In what seems like minutes, Salvatoré sets our meals down. “Can I bring you anything else, Joe?”

I look down at my beautiful plate of shrimp scampi, arranged in an attractive spiral over a pile of house-made fettuccini dyed with squid ink. Aromas of garlic, burnt butter, and perfectly-seasoned shrimp tease my nose. The contrasting colors reflect the feelings I have as I sit here alone. Fresh parsley brightens the plate like green confetti, and I respond, “No, everything looks wonderful,” as I struggle a smile. 

Salvatoré hesitates for a moment. His mouth starts to open, but then … he bows and takes his leave. I say a silent prayer, remembering when Gracie and I held hands and prayed before every meal we shared. Tears pool in my eyes as I lift my utensils and try to eat. Somehow, even here, the food is tasteless and I struggle to swallow my first bite past the lump in my throat. 

A young lady who I recognize approaches my table. “Hi Mr. Dougherty. Remember me? I’m Peggy from my parent’s animal shelter.” She gestures to a couple sitting at the window table across the room. They smile and wave at me. 

I force a smile. “Yes, Peggy. I remember you.” She looks very different in a delicate dress and her blonde hair worn down in contrast to the overalls and baseball cap I typically see her in at the shelter. 

“The animals miss you and your wife. We haven’t seen you for quite some time.” Her eyes roam over to the vacant chair across from me. She notices the untouched food and wine. With her eyes drawn together, she offers a concerning look and asks, “Is everything all right?”

I hesitate attempting to calm the tightness in my throat and think, nothing is right, nothing will ever will be right … not without my Gracie. “The misses passed away last month,” I explained. 

Peggie’s eyes snap wide and then her expression falls. “Oh … I’m … so sorry.” She hesitates, looks around the room, and then settles her eyes on the empty place across from me. Without another word, she pats my shoulder and walks away. I cannot blame her, really. Grief is a hard emotion to share, and it radiates from me like a runway beacon. 

Gracie and I used to stop by the shelter every Thursday to play with the animals. She favored the cats while I spent my time with the dogs. There were no pets allowed in the Senior Village, so we got our fix at the animal shelter, doing petty tasks that lightened the staff’s load a bit. It was one of the best two hours we spent over the week, other than date night.

When our children were young, we lived on some acreage where we all raised cows, horses, and goats. The kids competed at the local FFA, Future Farmers of America events. This fostered our love for fur angels. Many of them were adopted from rescue shelters that specialized in abused or troubled animals.

Our neighbors Marjie and Ben were friends we met in college. Both of their children were the same age as ours, so we spent a lot of time together. Every other Tuesday, we would watch each other’s children so that we could have date night with our spouses. Gracie and Marjie worked as nurses together at Ark Vally hospital, while Ben and I started a very profitable construction business. 

Once our children started lives of their own, the four of us sold our homes and moved into the Senior Village that Ben and I had built eight years earlier. We then shared date night together for the next several years. Ben died shortly after we all retired. Marjie was devastated. She became recluse and rarely left the house, if ever. I never understood why she did this. Sometimes I would get angry about it and sometimes sad. I just couldn’t understand such grief—until now.

My food remains mostly untouched when Peggy returns to my table. With a confidence that seems precocious for a girl her age, she pulls out the chair beside me and sits down. “I’ve been wanting to tell you about a few things for weeks. Tonight seems like a good night to do so, if you don’t mind.” Her eyes leave mine for a moment as if she were gathering courage. 

How can I refuse her? “I don’t mind a bit.” 

She takes a deep breath and lowers her wringing hands under the table. “Remember Sam, the big old bull dog who was always afraid of everyone?” 

I nodded. “Yes, I remember him well.” 

Tears glistened in her eyes and she looked up to fight them back. “Well, you were the only one he allowed to touch him. He took a chance and allowed another man to enter his pen last week. The man loved him so much, he adopted Sam that same day. You gave him the courage to trust again.”

“That’s fantastic news!” I chime, feeling genuinely happy for the first time in over a month. 

After wiping her eyes, she continues. “And remember that dog that was covered in oil and muck? The one your wife cleaned up?” 

I laugh, remembering the humorous event. “Yes, Gracie air dried the tiny thing after she bathed it in scented soap. The pup resembled a giant Dandelion puff.” Gracie had no skill in grooming dogs, but she did her best to make the tiny Pomeranian look presentable. 

Peggy laughs as well. “Those little black eyes were all you could see peering through her thick mantle of fur.”

“I remember the little girl who was so excited to hold the fluffy pup,” I returned.

Peggy smiled. “The girl’s father came back the next day and adopted the dog for his daughter’s birthday. She called her Cotton Ball.”

That bit of news urges another bout of laughter from me. “That’s wonderful, Peggy.”

“You see, you and your wife did a lot of good for those animals and all the others you spent time with. I sure would love to see you back there again; we all would, but the dogs most of all.” 

“I think that would do me some good as well, young lady.”

She stands from her chair. “Well, I just wanted you to know. Take care, Mr. Dougherty.” 

“Bye Peggy, and … thank you.” Her smile warmed my heart as she returned to her parent’s table. 

I finish my glass of wine and push my plate aside. Angelo offers to box the meals for me. He returns with my bag of food, and the extra meal I had ordered for Marjie. 

Salvatoré refused to charge me a dime, so I leave a hundred-dollar bill on the table. On the way home, I pass the animal shelter and hear the mournful cries of dogs. Thursday, I would have to stop by and spend time with them. Just the thought lifts my spirits some. Some habits, I think, should never be broken.

I enter the Village gate and make my way to the townhome on the corner. Outside the front door is a small glass table. I set the food down and ring Marjie’s doorbell. The last time I saw her was at Gracie’s Memorial. Marjie never answers the door anymore, so I take my time removing her food from my bag. I hear a click, then a slide. The door opens. 

“Hi Joe.” 

“Marjie,” I state in astonishment. 

She glances over at the boxed meal and then at the bag of food. “I could use some company. Would you like to come in?” 

I stood there like a stunned deer looking at an oncoming train. 

“Come on,” she laughs. “I think we could both use some conversation.”

 That is not what I want, but it is exactly what I need. I grab the food and follow her inside. 

We talk about Gracie and Ben, laughing at all the crazy things we had done over the years. Somehow, the food and conversation lightens both our hearts, just as it had during date night. Oddly, we both feel our respected mates right there beside us. 

After a wonderful conversation, a bottle of wine and cleaning the dishes, we  give each other a lingering, much needed hug. As I step outside for my return home, I notice how numb I had become since Gracie’s passing. But now, the cool air caresses my skin like an old habit and I can actually feel it! I smile up at the full moon and absorb Gracie’s love surrounding me. 

Come morning, the early sun warms my face as I sip my coffee. For the first time, in a long time, I know … life will be okay. The heavy veil that I thought was protecting me lifts and there is a lightness in my heart. A gentle breeze kisses my skin, sweet and gentle like Gracie’s lips. She may not be here in body, but her spirit is felt, and I know that I am not alone.