The
old swag lamp cast a warm glow over the table, its light fading into
darkness long before reaching the walls. Ramona and I sat opposite each
other. She stared, silently defying me to make a move. I had no fear of
her under any circumstances, nor would I disappoint her challenge. I
reached under the lamp in her direction.
“There! My rook has
captured your remaining bishop. You can see your position is hopeless.
Knock over your king! Let’s seek less daunting tasks this Friday evening.
Tasks that do not require a chess board between us.”
“Wow! Well, that
does surprise me,” Ramona exclaimed. “I mean your move, not your
not-so-subtle advances. Hmm, I can analyze this awhile, huh?” she asked
coyly, knowing I’m a sucker for her words.
I gave her that
luxury before defeat, saying, “Take as long as you’d like.”
Ramona leaned
toward the table, staring at the board, then folded her hands together and
rested her chin on them. On these Friday nights, we always had a glass of
“zin,” as she called it. White Zinfandel, our favorite chess time
beverage, and the only time I smoked a Churchill cigar. She’d fuss, but it
was her father, Doctor Rice, who introduced me to them in this very room,
leaving her with little high ground to fuss about.
She was deep in
concentration; I was free to roam, and the shadows obliged. As she sat
there, so focused, I quietly leaned back away from the lamp, the wine
glasses, the chess pieces, and my soul mate for the only part of my life
that mattered. I looked at those sensuous green eyes with the glowing
sparkle that passed unchanged over the decades. Her hair had hints of gray
and wrinkles were making their appearance, but there was a beauty that
grows and shows only in a woman who has some unconquerable inner strength.
Except to poets and philosophers, it is indefinable.
Almost as if alone,
I drifted aimlessly back, back over our years, until thoughts of a
friend’s poem jarred me. I didn’t have to close my eyes for Robin
Dorfman’s poem to take me to a place from long ago: to a first date. The
poem had been published in a poetry quarterly, and when I first read it, I
wondered how Robin could have known so much about me. Part of her poem
sprang into my mind as I watched Ramona. “And some reminisced/‘Bout a
long-ago kiss/And the cool of the leather — /Sweet times spent
together/Liquid lightning emblazoned the sides/As dice swung freely with
the rhythm of the ride.” Suddenly, all over again, it was a Friday night
in September 1961, and I had a blind date with a girl named Ramona Rice.
Several times I had
seen her when I picked up my kid sister, Katharine, from Mount Carmel
Academy. Her gestures, her walk, everything intrigued me, even from afar.
And she was a fine looking brunette to boot. Katharine didn’t know her,
but fortunately, she knew Mary Hare, the self-proclaimed matchmaker who,
in turn, knew Ramona, a senior. A date was finally arranged
at a cost of five bucks each to
Katharine and Mary, but nothing is to extreme when wanting to meet a young
lady. Unfortunately, I discovered competition. She was dating Billy
Hacker, a big gorilla who played fullback for Warren Easton High, one of
the tougher schools in New Orleans. Tulane, LSU, and Ole Miss were vying
for his skills in ‘62; everybody in New Orleans knew of him, including me.
Fortunately, I had a trump card: a car! And it was a convertible. And I
was a college man, albeit a freshman. By my reckoning, that would overcome
the deficit in my overwhelming lack of athletic skills.
To my car’s credit,
the blind date started wonderfully. I arrived at her home five minutes
early. Old Faithful’s reliability was sometimes questioned by my buddies,
but it got us home more times than not. The rag top leaked a little and
occasionally it didn’t operate properly, and the gas gauge was stuck on
“Full.” The list was longer, but I considered this inconsequential when it
came to dating.
I rang the door
bell, hoping Ramona’s mother would answer. Fathers were not the preferred
company for introductions. Mrs. Rice opened the door and with a smile,
invited me in. So far, so good, I thought. “You must be Mark Gardner,” she
asked, knowing I was.
No ma’am, I’m
Elvis, I thought to myself. “Yes, ma’am. It is a pleasure to meet
you,” I said respectfully. One down and one to go.
“Ramona will be
ready in a moment, Mark.” She continued, “Come and meet Ramona’s father.
I’m sure he’d like to meet you.”
“It’d be my
pleasure ma’am.” My thoughts weren’t the same.
“George, the young
man taking Mona out this evening is here.”
“Bring him here,
here in the den, dear.” He sounded like the Grim Reaper calling for me.
“O.K., honey.
Com’on, Mark.” Mrs. Rice said, beckoning me to follow.
“Yes ma’am,” I answered
cheerfully, as though I had a choice.
“What college do
you go to Mark? Ramona tells me you graduated from Jesuit High last year.”
I didn’t have a
chance to answer before we entered the den. Ramona’s father’s back faced
us. He turned as he rose from his chair. “Well, Mark, how are you?” he
asked.
I gasped in
disbelief, swallowing hard, my eyes bugging out of my head. “Doctor Rice!”
I exclaimed, as I stood before my Chemistry 101 professor.
“Oh, sweet Jesus
how....” Whoops! I thought to myself.
“It’s a pleasure to
meet you, sir,” I stammered, trying to recover, my face flushed with
embarrassment. “You’re Ramona’s father!”
“Do I know you,
son?” he asked quizzically.
“Ahem, I’m in one
of your classes, Doctor Rice,” I said, praying he wouldn’t prod further.
“Which one?”
Mrs. Rice
interrupted, “Let me check on Mona, dear, while you talk to this nice
young man.”
“Oh, that’s O.K.,
Mrs. Rice, we have plenty of time,” I said, not wanting to be alone with
Doctor Rice.
“George, Mark
graduated from Jesuit last year.
“I won’t be long,
I’m sure Doctor Rice and you have things to talk about,” she said, leaving
quickly.
“Oh-h, Jesuit High,
that’s nice,” he said, “and what class of mine did you say you were in,
Mike? The semester is young, so I don’t yet know many of my
students.”
“It’s ‘Mark’ sir;
I’m in your 11 o’clock class. Most interesting, too,” I explained.
Don’t ask me my major, I thought to myself.
“Well, how do you
like Tulane?”
“Very well, sir.” I
said little, hoping to quell his curiosity.
“And, what’s your
major?”
“I’m not sure yet,
Doctor Rice, but I do like the sciences,” I replied, seeking brownie
points.
Mrs. Rice called
out, “George, Mark! We’re in the living room, com’on y’all. Mona and Mark
have to leave soon to be on time for the play.”
I quietly gave
thanks to God for Mrs. Rice’s timely return.
“Have a nice time
kids,” Mrs. Rice remarked.
Doctor Rice
wouldn’t shut up. “Yeah. Drive carefully, and have my daughter back at
11:15. Enjoy The King and I. Watch out for rain.” He kept going on,
even as Mrs. Rice was closing the front door.
“George, you nagged
that poor boy, such a nice young man, and a student of yours, no less.
Shame!”
Doctor Rice grunted
and shrugged his shoulders. “Nonsense, did you see that car? It’s a junk
heap, flames painted on the sides, dice hanging from the rearview mirror.
He’s a hot-rodder, for sure.”
“Darling, Mona’s
just going out with the boy, she’s not marrying him, for goodness sake.
You men!” Mrs. Rice said, shaking her head.
The King and I
wasn’t a John Wayne western, but Ramona loved it, and that made me happy.
We decided to bowl a few frames at Mid-City Bowling Alley since it was a
Friday night hangout for many of her friends. Hopefully, they would make a
first date less threatening for both of us.
A slight sprinkle
had begun as we pulled into the parking lot. She saw some
girlfriends from Mount Carmel and didn’t wait for me to open her door. Out
she jumped, slamming the door behind her, creating new rattles.
Much to my chagrin,
one chatty little friend, Judy Fiore from Boston, said, “I thought you
were dating Billy Hacker.” Her accent was still Bostonian thick, and it
drove me crazy.
“He’s here?!” asked
Ramona.
“No, no!” responded
Judy, not the least bit concerned by her faux pas.
Ramona’s standing
went up a notch when she said, “Well, you know, Judy, I do not go steady
with him, and I’m enjoying my date with Mark very much.”
“Uh, why don’t we
all go in and bowl, girls.” I responded hastily, before Judy could screw
things up.
“Mark, what about
the car top?”
“If it rains, I’ll
run down and put it up,” I said confidently, then bravely added, “Can I
call you Mona?”
“Yeah, sure, I’d
like that.” A telltale sign: She liked me.
The evening was
storybook perfect. Naturally, it all ended too soon. We had to leave;
only 30 minutes to curfew, and
it would not be missed. There was no doubt, she couldn’t resist me.
Another date was on the horizon.
Six blocks away, we
caught the red light at Carrollton and Canal Street. The car sputtered
slightly, shook, sputtered again, then died. “Uh-oh,” I muttered.
“Well! Why won’t
your car go?” quizzed Ramona. “And I think you’d better put up the top
now, don’t you? It’s starting to rain.”
“Hmm, yeah, that’s
a good idea. Old Faithful will start in a minute or two,” I told her,
while turning the key several times with nothing positive to show for it.
“Are you out of
gas?” she asked, looking over at the gauge.
“Oh, no, no! I’m
sure of that.”
“Yeah, I see it’s
full. Mark, please put up the top!”
“You bet!” I said,
pushing the button to raise the top.
The shrill sound of
the top rising was nerve wracking. The off-white top groaned, a loud
screeching noise wailed from the rear. Suddenly, the sound stopped; then
the top stopped — straight up in the air.
“Mark! What
happened? Can you fix it?”
“Not here.”
“Very funny! It’s
raining, you know! You better do something!” Her voice now had a hint of
anger in it.
“I know! I know!” I
said, confidently. “Look, there’s a phone booth over by the bus stop. I’ll
call my father to come get us; then we’ll call you father. He’ll
understand.
“Holy cow! All I
have is a five-dollar bill,” I exclaimed, becoming desperate as the rain
started falling harder.
“Let me check,” she
said, leering at me while getting wetter. “No, no change! Now what?”
I sought
understanding, saying, “Gosh, this has never happened before on a date.”
“On a date!” she
yelled. “You dummy, so it has happened before. Great!
“I’m gonna drown
here like a rat in this stupid car of yours. It won’t start. The top is
sticking straight up in the air. We can’t make a phone call. And now I’ve
got 15 minutes to get home. What next?”
“I have an idea.
Really,” I begged, “at least we can stay dry.”
“Go ahead, tell
me,” she said, more than a little exasperated.
“The trunk is
pretty big. I’ll open it, and we can sit in it to keep the rain off.”
“Oh, your trunk
door works — does it?! What a pleasant surprise.” She sounded sarcastic,
but given our circumstances, she agreed.
When we got out of
the car, I mistakenly noted her wet appearance. “You sure look good in
that wet sweater,” I commented. Her remarks were not ladylike.
So, on a Friday
night in September of 1961, at a stoplight in the pouring rain, we sat
huddled in the grubby open trunk of a stalled ‘52 Oldsmobile convertible.
Wisdom dictated that I not ask about a second date.
All was quiet —
until the police car pulled up, red light flashing.
“Ah-ha!” she
yelled, turning toward me, “he can take me home, and you can live out your
miserable life in this trunk as far as I care.”
“Wait, Mona. I want
to go — to explain to your father.”
“You’re nuts!
“Wait till I get my
hands on that Mary Hare for setting me up with you, you idiot!” she said
as she huffed off toward the policeman, who was now standing outside his
car, scratching his head.
“No! Wait! I paid
Mary five bucks to arrange....”
“What?! You did
what?!” she erupted, spewing venom.
“Mona, I ... I....”
“Mona! Don’t you
ever call me that again!” she yelled, walking toward the police car.
“Better yet, don’t ever call me again! Don’t ever see me again! Don’t ever
think of....” her voice faded off as she slammed the car door behind
her.
The policeman walked over, unsympathetic to Ramona’s
hollering, to my stuck convertible top, to the rain. “Son, I’ll drop off
your girlfriend; you stay here till I come back,” he ordered, grinning.
“Yes sir, officer,”
I said, “but I don’t think ‘girlfriend’ is the right term to use.”
“Stay dry!” he
said, as he walked back to his car, got in, and drove off — now laughing.
The flashing red light disappeared into the night, signaling to the world
my date was over.
“Darling! Are you
awake?” Ramona Rice Gardner asked. “One glass of zin, and you’re off in
la-la land. What were you daydreaming about?”
“A distant evening
in autumn,” I responded, chuckling.
“Back to chess,
dear. Your move did indeed capture my bishop, but....”
I hastily
interrupted, “So, you do see the futility in continuing!”
“Whoa! Not so
quick. Let me explain my move,” noted Ramona.
“Sweetheart,
perhaps you would do well to remember Purdy’s quote, ‘Chess is as much a
mystery as women,’ and Lord knows you’re still a mystery to me. Why
confuse me more?”
“You sure?”
“Yep,” I responded.
“Well, love, I
guess you’re right. By now, I oughtta know not to argue with you.”
“Yep, that’s my
girl.”
“O.K.!” Ramona
smirked, then laughed. She reached under the old swag lamp and moved her
knight onto the spot that was home for my rook, announcing, “Checkmate!”
“What! How! Uh, you
sure?” I said, shocked.
“Yes, darling, you
lost — again,” she remarked.
For a few moments I
drifted, again thinking of that first date, our two girls who were now
women, a granddaughter, our years with each other — so many of them — then
I leaned across the table, looked wistfully into Ramona’s eyes and
whispered, “No, I’ve never lost, not even once.”
She smiled and was
quiet for many long moments, then said, “Me neither!”