I married a woman I didn't love; in fact, could barely stand to be around. Old men like me dream of a passionate May/December marriage that will bring back the fire of our youth. But ours was a December/December marriage. A union between two dried up, worn out people whose time came and went and are now just waiting around, I guess, for the curtain to fall.
Her name was Marion and I met her on a cruise to the Bahamas. My son and my grandkids were always joking about how my mind went to the Bahamas. So I decided to follow it just to see what was in the Bahamas.
As with life itself, the journey was more fun than the destination. I enjoyed watching the other passengers on board. Nothing lifts a man's spirits like seeing how unhappy some of his fellow humans are, meeting the walking horrors they marry, that sort of thing. I was in a good mood by the time we reached Nassau.
Then Marion got on the ship for the return trip. They put us at the same dining table because we're both from Tulsa and are senior citizens. There was chemistry between us from the start, but not good chemistry. We could sense the inevitable, like two people being swept along in a river who cling helplessly to each other.
It's like this. I would rather hear a woman's voice than abide the silence of an empty house. Marion's mediocre cooking was still better than my own. Even her sardonic remarks about my looks proved that I was still alive and another human being knew it.
Neither of us smiled during the marriage ceremony that took place on board ship the night before we got back to Miami. They offered us a honeymoon suite but we said hell no. We demanded a room with two full-sized beds and Marion said on our wedding night, you so much as come within three feet of me and I'll squeeze your balls so hard tears will run down your cheeks. That set the tone, I suppose, for our marriage.
Marion's first husband had just given up and died. It was the only way he could escape her. He had dabbled in oil futures, and the thing about oil is that even if you only dabble in it you still become filthy rich. It's like falling down, you just let yourself go and there you are.
I guess he didn't care that the woman who'd in a sense done him in got everything. A nice Tudor-style home set on two acres south of downtown Tulsa; an estate that if you have to ask the price you can't afford it.
I sold my own home in a less fashionable part of Tulsa and handed the sale money to Marion. In return she made me the primary beneficiary of her own estate. Then we settled into a grim endurance test to see who would outlive the other and reap the benefits of our deal with the devil.
But still I'd lie in bed and wonder. Is this all that's left for people our age? Must we accept this cheerless life with no hope for anything better? I would think of Marion sleeping two rooms down from me. Does she not, in the depths of the night, also wish for more?
Marion was hell on wheels, a bear to live with, but I always say give the devil her due. The woman could garden like billy-be damned. She'd throw seed on the ground and next thing you know it's the Garden of Eden. But of course Marion did more than throw seed. Her specialty was azaleas but she was an ace when it came to dogwoods and roses and day lilies and all the rest of that stuff.
We humans believe that if it's worth doing it's worth overdoing, and so it was with Marion's garden. It started small, then became an acre, finally an acre and a half of greenery. Of course she rarely lifted a bony finger or got dirt under her manicured nails. The landscape company did all the work.
We have a big bay window that overlooks Marion's garden. One April morning I was standing looking out that window when I saw a naked girl in the garden. I was sipping coffee and wondering if it would rain and wishing two o'clock would get here so I could start drinking bourbon.
But I was stone sober. And there was a young girl walking among the pink azaleas. You couldn't see all her body at first but there was no doubt in my mind that she was stark naked, not even wearing shoes.
She finally came down a path where you could see everything the good Lord gave her and the good Lord gave her plenty.
But she wasn't a male fantasy. If she had been, she'd have had enormous breasts, maybe longer legs, or flaming red hair. That's how we men are. But as I watched her I decided that she was just right, a woman who was greater than the sum of her physical parts, if that makes sense.
Her ample breasts didn't overshadow but rather complemented her well-rounded hips, and her legs not only got the job done but added to the overall image of a woman most fair. The whole greater than the sum of the parts.
She began to pick some yellow coreopsis that were coming into bloom, smiling as she did so but you could see a trace of melancholy in that pretty face. Even from a distance and with my old man's eyes there was no question about it.
It was as if being in our garden helped ease her sorrow. But hers was not a devastating problem, I think, not as if she'd been left at the altar or lost her credit card. She just emanated a sort of regret about life in general.
Being a man I wanted to see her butt, and when she turned back toward the azaleas it was just where it always is. A round womanly derriere. Her waist was not as narrow as I'd hoped. Hers was the sort of body where a woman says, okay, this is who I am and I'm fine with it.
But how the sight of that naked girl lifted my spirits! It was an unexpected gift, one you enjoy all the more just because it came out of the blue. I grinned and walked into Marion's study where she was sewing and watching some worthless program on TV, as if there's any other kind.
Marion looked up to me in the doorway and I said with a chuckle, "There's some girl walking around in your garden and she's taken all her clothes off."
The woman looked at me as you would a spider, not a big scary one but one that you'd squash without thinking twice. "Don't bother me," she said. I got that a lot from Marion.
"It's true."
"Kiss my ass." I'd never kissed Marion's ass, and shuddered at the thought of doing something so revolting.
She continued, "It isn't even noon yet, John. Surely you're not drunk already, are you?"
"No, and there really is a naked girl in your garden."
"Go away." She went back to her sewing; case closed, meeting adjourned.
I returned to the bay window and the girl was still out there, now with a colorful bouquet, which added to the overall aesthetic of the scene, making it more charming than just a naked girl parading around. Even I had to admit that.
Like most of us I have no idea who lives in my neighborhood. Could be a bunch of squatters from New Caledonia for all I know. But I decided to approach the girl and tell her it was okay to visit the garden.
I wasn't going to mention that getting naked in it was fine by me. That would be implicit of course.
But she ought to know that someone was watching and appreciated the fact that she'd chosen to brighten up Marion's garden with her nude body which as far as I'm concerned put those azaleas to shame when it comes to natural beauty.
