It was the last year of the Reagan administration when Claire Snyder, my dentist and cousin by marriage, first told me the awful news. Mathew Rudduck had been diagnosed with cancer. Mathew was only thirty-seven and he had three young children. Recently, he and Briana, his wife of ten years, had purchased a beautiful new home. Horrible timing...and why him of all people? He was a health nut. He exercised, didn't smoke, eschewed red meat. It came as a shock to say the least.
I hadn't spoken to Mathew in awhile. We were once close friends, close enough to where he had invited me to his wedding. But then, like many friends do when they tie the knot, we drifted apart. We'd speak to each other by phone, but in-person contact became rarer and rarer. He and Briana knew Claire and her husband Sheldon through a cooking class they took together. Claire suggested I give Mathew a call. "It would mean a lot to him, Jacob," she said.
So I did, somewhat anxious, not knowing what to say. So typical, right? What does one say and how does one say it under those circumstances? Mathew put me at ease, thanked me for calling. He sounded upbeat, determined to beat his illness. "I've got a lot to live for," he said.
"You've got everything to live for," I responded, then steered the conversation back to old times, the trips to New York, that Beach Boys concert in Washington DC, those marathon workouts at the old Y. Before we hung up, Mathew told me that he was going through chemo and was scheduled for another operation. Claire told me later that he was probably sicker than he led on because his surgeons didn't get all the cancer in the first operation, nor in the second, it turned out—the tumors were too close to vital organs. Still, he tried to live a normal life. He returned to work in his family's pharmacy, exercised when he had the energy.
But, no surprise, he got sicker. Eighteen months after his diagnosis, he could no longer work or take in solid foods. A few months later, I saw him at home. He sat up in bed, tethered to an IV which fed him nourishment. He was off chemo but looked forward to an experimental drug. "I need to get better first in order for the docs to approve it for me," he revealed. He still had hope, still had plenty of fight left in him. In fact, he fought all the way up to his last hospital stay. Then, on a cool October morning, he died, one month after his fortieth birthday. His funeral will be forever etched in my mind, the sight of Briana crying her eyes out by the gravesite, her two daughters and son—ten-year old Heather, eight-year old Rachel and five-year old Robert—by her side. I asked myself: What does a woman in her late thirties with three young children do now? How does she cope, move on? Of course, I also pondered how unfair life can be. Mathew would never live to see his kids grow up; and those kids, Robert especially, would have but a fleeting memory of their dad.
The following spring, while getting my teeth cleaned, Clair told me that she and Briana had been in touch. Briana was still aggrieved, yet "trying to move on with her life." Photography, once her avocation, had become her vocation, and she was doing well, well enough where her income, combined with her widow's insurance and largesse from Mathew's family, enabled her to stay in her home. "She's asked about you," Clair went on, "as if she's interested in getting together. You might want to give her a call."
I had thought about it, then quickly dismissed it. Even if she didn't have three kids, I didn't feel comfortable with the idea of dating a deceased friend's wife. The kids further complicated matters. That said, had I met Briana before Mathew, I wouldn't have hesitated. Some guys would settle for nothing less than some drop-dead, flashing beauty, replete with D-cup boobs and big hair. Blond, of course. Briana did have blond hair, dirty blond, to be more specific, but there was no flash, just a cheerleader sort of cuteness, with a cute little bod to match, and an easy, welcoming disposition. She was down to earth, so genuine and so sweet. Her soft, sensuous voice alone was enough to rouse a man's interest. She and Mathew had had a rock-solid, loving marriage, and he had been a great dad. What could I bring to her table? Mathew would be a tough act to follow, not just for me but for any guy. Even so, I was both encouraged and tempted—encouraged by Claire's message, tempted by all the good qualities I saw in Briana from the time that Mathew first introduced us.
It was June already, eight months after Mathew's death. "So glad you called me, Jacob," she said. The sadness in her voice still lingered, yet there was also a steely determination to go on and do the best she could. "I have no choice, Jacob. I have three kids that need me, that I'm responsible for."
Her home sat in the outer suburbs, what had been rural just a few decades before. Mathew's diagnosis has come less than a year after they had moved in. "So unfair," I whispered, pulling into the driveway, admiring the split level, four-bedroom abode designed with fine wood and lots of glass. Mat had had everything going for him except what's most important, good health. Dead at forty. It didn't make sense. Being forty-one and in good health, I still found that hard to process. The biblical Job had everything until God, to test his faith, took it all away. Then he restored in spades what Job had lost. Not so my friend Mathew.
Briana greeted me with a warm smile. We hugged in the foyer, she gave last minute instructions to the baby-sitter, and then we were on our way to the Golden Dragon, a Chinese restaurant and her choice. She looked so pretty, her semi-golden hair swept back in front, the sides and back dropping to her bare shoulders on this balmy evening. She didn't wear much makeup. She never had because she never had to, not with such fine skin and beautiful hazel eyes. In the car, her light blue dress rode up a few inches above her knees. She smiled when she caught me stealing glimpses of her legs, thick but shapely in that deliciously feminine way.
"I really am glad you called me," she said when we were seated in a booth, perusing our menus. "I needed to finally get out. Also, I've always liked you, found you among the nicest of Mat's friends."
Reaching across the white linen covered table, I took her hand. "Thanks. I've always liked you too." We ordered, and then caught up. We talked about her photography business and my job as a journalist for a local daily newspaper, not the most lucrative of gigs but it paid the bills.
When I inquired about how her kids were doing, she said they were "adjusting as best as can be expected. In Mathew's final months, they saw a dad who didn't live the way other dads his age did. Their dad was bedridden much of the time and fed intravenously. And, you know, he didn't look so good, with the weight loss and jaundiced eyes and skin. So his death, crushing as it was, came as no big surprise. Heather tried to comfort me during the funeral. 'Daddy isn't hurting anymore,' she said." She brushed away a tear, then forced a smile. "Damn it, Jacob, I promised myself I wouldn't cry in front of you. You didn't take me out to—"
"Briana, you can express anything you'd like in front of me," I said, patting her hand. "You can cry, laugh, even fart if you'd like."
She guffawed, wiping away more tears as she did. "Well, Jacob, I just might take you up on that. I mean, it is a pretty shitty thing what happened."
"Shitty and unfair and absurd. All of that. But you're amazingly strong, Briana, carrying on the way you have. I know what you said about having no choice. Still, something like this would paralyze some people. And yet..." I began to get emotional, looked down and blinked back my own tears. "Look, I admire your strength, your courage. That's all I'm trying to say."
"Thanks, I appreciate that. Now, are we going to eat these eggrolls or cry the rest of the night?"
We ate the eggrolls, the spare ribs, et al. and sipped our tea. After I paid the check, I left it up to her what she thought should come next. "A walk out Oregon Ridge might be nice on a night like this," she said. "Exercise, any kind of exercise, makes me feel better. I should be doing it more of it."
Oregon Ridge was a park in Northern Baltimore County, replete with greenswards, a nature center and wood pavilions. In back of the pavilions, the land sloped up to over a ten percent grade, stretching on for about two-hundred yards to the summit. Athletes, including myself, trained here. I hadn't known that Mathew, before he got sick, took Briana out here as well. "We were both in really good shape then," she said. "We'd race each other up the hill. Mat always won, but I gave him a run for his money."
It was still daylight when we began our hike. Briana slipped off her sandals. My casual, rubber-soled shoes were almost as good for this as my track Adidas. "Look, I can see you're in shape for this," she said, eyeing my lean, five-foot ten inch frame. "But I'm not, so please bear with me."
"We'll take it slow," I assured her. "And if you can't make it to the top, we'll—"
"Oh no," she corrected me. "I'm climbing this hill come hell or high water." She trudged on, breathing heavy as she went, resting every few minutes, but determined. Out of condition or not, there was no stopping her. Sure enough, she made it. Bending over, hands on her knees, she struggled to catch her breath. "Whew! That was wonderful. I've got to do this more often, get back in condition again." She straightened up. "You'll help me?"
"Um, well, I...sure." My tepid response reflected my mixed feelings about seeing Briana on a regular basis, something she picked up on right away.
"Look, Jacob, I realize this can't be easy for you, being with a deceased friend's widow, one with three kids at home, my baggage as some would put it. If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll understand. No hard feelings."
We were standing close to each other, looking out over the park. From a few hundred feet up, those pavilions and the cars parked on the huge lot in front of them looked tiny. Beyond the park, stretched the Hunt Valley landscape, an "edge city" of scattered residential development, a huge "Main Street" type shopping mall and industrial parks, with their glass-walled towers that gleamed in the setting sun of this early June evening. It was a great time and place for getting romantic. Except the only reason I was standing here, sharing it with this terrific woman was because a friend had left this earth much too soon. I couldn't get beyond that painful, nagging awareness. I COULD see myself in a friendship role, helping Briana through her grief, lending support. "No, I'm okay with it," I said. "You now have a personal trainer, one that won't charge you, even for gas." I grinned.
She smiled, reached out and hugged me. "It's a deal, only I insist that you let me at least take you out for a meal or even cook you one. Can you handle that?"
"I can handle that." I leaned back with my arms wrapped loosely around her waist, my lips just inches from hers. Call me presumptuous, but those beautiful green eyes of hers seemed to plead for something I so wanted to give and would have under different circumstances. I held her at arm's length and said, "You'll be back in shape in no time."
Seconds passed while she looked up at me (she came up to my chin), conveying a look of disappointment mixed with resignation. Finally, she said, "Working with you, I have no doubt."
