Glass Jars

by Jeffrey B. Burton

My wife works at I-Tech. I crunch numbers ten minutes south at Deloitte Touche. Most days it would make no sense not to share a ride. Never at a loss to scamper out of work around five bells, I find myself waiting, parked back in the drive-through that circles I-Tech’s front entrance. I-Tech employs four thousand people here at its home branch. I’ll lean my seat back a notch or two, turn the jazz on low, unwind, and people watch as I await my wife. That was what I was doing that first day I noticed her.

The first glimpse had added import, if only in memory. She floated out of I-Tech’s front entrance with a playful bounce that caught my eye. The carefree bounce of a girlish tomboy, unafraid to climb trees or jump bikes or tire swing with the rest of the guys. A bounce indicating she’d been accustomed to leading the pack in an impromptu game of kick the can or hide and seek. She bounced into my life with a mane of silky blond hair, an arched smile, and a devilish twinkle in her eye. Then she paused, as though sensing my voyeurism, turned, and peeked straight at me, a direct inquiry in her eyes that captured my soul. That’s how it all began.

Never terribly comfortable with myself, I gave her an embarrassed grin. She smiled back, a moment passed, her eyes became unfocused, lost in a deep thought, possibly the same expression I wore. Then gave a friendly half-wave with the fingers of her ring-less left hand, and she was on her way toward the I-Tech parking lot. I was flustered. And it has been so long since I’d been gratefully, marvelously flustered. Unexpected emotions are always the hardest and the purest and rawest and deepest and scariest and sweetest. Chewing on a dried yellow leaf in the fall. Having mother work that sliver out of your pint-sized finger with a needle. Your first Halloween. Your first snow. First kiss. In retrospect, I think that for one second—an instant in infinity—I could have stepped from my Taurus, touched her hand, and fallen deep into those marble blue eyes. And, in that particular moment—I may not have received a slap in return.

The timing was such, over the past several years, that I somehow wound up in front of I-Tech in time to see her two or maybe three times a week. Just in time to receive a quick peek, an arched nod, a raised eyebrow, a small wave that consummated our affair. What began in silence remained that way, as though clumsy introductions or awkward chatter would shatter the intimacy. I’d create small fictions based on my interpretation of her personality, her movement, her aura. What else does a person really need to know?

That first snowfall found her face up, mouth open to catch some of winter’s wet kisses. Spring found her carrying green plants home, likely to hang outside. Summer found her, like myself, leaving work earlier than usual, with castles to conquer and clouds to color. Fall brought jean-jackets and Friday nights with likely bonfires to attend.

Please don’t misunderstand. I love my wife. Endlessly. Unconditionally. I’m not unhappy with my lot in life. Far from it. There is no simple understanding. I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I’m overly serious. Perhaps I’ve too much self-awareness. I find myself treading water in a sea of if thoughts. How does that old pun go, something about if being the middle part of life.

I remember the swirl of emotion the day I spotted her engagement ring. It was a windy summer day when she emerged from under I-Tech’s overhang. She wore hats, an inspired collection from around the world that helped me fill in the blanks of her life with more small fictions. On the day I saw her ring, she was holding onto her hat in order to keep it from blowing away, and I saw the diamond gleaming in the sun. She looked at me straight-faced, bashfully acknowledging my awareness. I attempted a broad grin, rolled my eyes upward, and brought my fist to my chest as though feigning heartbreak. She gave a playful nod of acceptance and was on her way.

The vigil continued. Both our lives were contained in jars, and we studied one another through the glass. I’d watch as the seasons, and then years, passed by, and felt that I could discern which days were heavy and long with stress, which were good days, which were the days she’d rather be in Paris or London, or, more-than-likely, hiding up in a tree fort. And, although she had this cheery demeanor, I felt I could tell the days when the sadness was papered over and hidden from the world. I felt that on the day she no longer wore her ring.

This past winter I saw her less and less, began feeling an emptiness in the pit of my stomach when there she’d appear, swimming in her parka, hat snuggled over her ears against the cold, sunglasses hiding her eyes. She’d see me beaming from ear to ear, happy to soak in her presence, if even from afar, then she’d give me a wave, a knowing smile, and suddenly I was complete.

That’s how it was the last time I saw her. Standing in her jacket, hat, and sunglasses—staring at me. Something was wrong. She took a step in my direction, and then froze. I stared as she mouthed something toward me, something I could barely make out. Inhibitions were all forgotten as I opened my door and stood by the car. But by then she’d turned and started away. She had mimed “Good-bye.”

That was over six weeks ago. It is now April. Springtime. I’ve been coming earlier, searching faces in the crowd of people as the I-Tech workday ends. Today I went into the front lobby, searched the passing crowd, somehow knowing it was futile. My eyes settled on a rack containing the company newsletter. A picture caught my eye. I picked up a copy and read a few sentences.

It was all I could do to make it back to my car without falling. I could barely breathe. The newsletter contained a picture of my secret friend on the front page, along with the date of her birth . . . and the date she died last week. Leukemia.

I wish I could stop my shoulders and chest from shaking. I wish I could make things different. I see my wife approaching the car. She has a look of deep concern on her face.

And she’ll want to know about these tears . . .