Photograph by Forest McMullin ©1974 All Rights Reserved
“I don’t get it. I just don’t get how you can leave. Shit, I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Then how can you leave me here?”
He looked across the bed. She stood there, looking tiny, even smaller than her five-foot-nothing. The light bulb hanging from the ceiling by the end of the bed swayed slightly making the shadow behind her look alive. Their fourth-floor walk-up came furnished but didn’t include any lamps and since they both thought the arrangement was temporary, they hadn’t bought any.
“I can’t make you understand.”
“Try harder.”
“I’m tired of trying. It’s just something I need. I’ve never done anything completely on my own. I need to do this. I’ll be back in a few months. We’ll be together then. Please be happy for me.”
“Be happy. Right.” Her words had an edge of ice. He saw that her eyes were dry but had red circles from the earlier tears. Their lovemaking had been hurried, almost frantic, as if they both wanted to get to the end quickly to see what would come next. Now, as they stood naked on either side of the bed, the distance was much greater than the width of a double mattress.
“Okay, not happy, but at least believe me when I tell you I’m coming back. To you. To our life. We’ll be together. I know we will.”
He thought about what his father had said when they moved into the small apartment. He disapproved, but of him, not her. His old man said that by not getting married, he was “taking advantage” of her. “Why buy the cow if the milk is free,” he said. Gross. Remembering that bullshit attitude made him that much more committed to returning. But he really didn’t know how long he’d be gone. What might happen while he was on the road. Who he might meet. It could be months.
She just stared at him.
They had met at school and fell in love. Although they had gone to high school in neighboring towns, they had never met until college. After an Intro to Psychology class they started talking and didn’t stop for hours. They were soon inseparable, and in the spring both talked about taking a semester off to make the money needed to supplement financial aid. Sharing a place seemed logical. She got a job waiting tables at a steakhouse and he worked nights as a janitor at a local paper mill. In spite of their schedules, they spent as much time together as possible.
Things were going well, until he started to get an itch he had a hard time scratching. He had never traveled beyond New England and he wanted to see more. He read about epic road trips by authors like Jack Kerouac and Tom Robbins and Richard Brautigan and he wanted to experience something similar. The Sixties were over, but here in the mid-Seventies, he was certain he could have his own grand adventure. He knew he needed to find out who he was becoming and the best, possibly the only, way to do that was on his own.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I am, too.”
She walked to the end of the bed and pulled the cord, turning off the bare bulb. They got into bed, backs to each other. He lay there, the sheets cool against his skin, with his eyes open. The room was dimly lit by the yellowish glow coming from the streetlight outside their building.
He couldn’t decide what he felt. Excitement for what was coming? Sadness for what he was leaving behind? As he fell asleep, he thought it could be both.