As Luck Would Have It (20 page)

Perhaps this paradox does not seem entirely clear to you just yet, and we will certainly have to wait awhile to see how things are going to develop over the upcoming months.  But I am in the auspicious position of being able to look back on it years later, and am therefore better able to appreciate the improbable scenario that we may
yet
see play out.  But please consider the fact that for whatever reason, and I probably have not adequately emphasized it to this point, Aunt Doreen's anger was focused largely on Mr. Casslemond's wife, even if she had nothing to do with the accident whatsoever, and eve
n
though she had asked Mr. Casslemond not to make the deliveries that Sunday, having suggested instead that he go to church with her in the morning and perhaps have the grandchildren over to watch football in the afternoon.  But to Mr. Casslemond, business came first, at least it did back then, though not anymore, and when he hugged her and said goodbye that morning, he really felt like staying home or even going with her to church, where he hadn't been for who knows how long.  Yes, with clear hindsight we can see what a bad decision that turned out to be, and of course the better option would have been to go to church and pray for peace, or sustenance, or hope, or whatever he felt like praying for, if only he had gone.  But the price of redemption would be steep; its weight so profound
that no one should have to bear it alone; she must share the burden with her husband, not the intensity of his guilt perhaps, but as we have seen, the brunt of my aunt's wrath instead. 
Could
salvation come to Mr. Casslemond's wife through such an unlikely source as Aunt Doreen? 

You could say that December 8, 19
80
started out badly
;
I had overslept and was going to be late for my microeconomics class.  I was up much too late the night before, playing bridge with some of the guys in the dorm instead of finishing the homework assignment that was due today.  I considered just skipping class, but decided that might not be prudent, having already fallen behind in my reading and receiving no better than a C+ on either of Mr. Wackerson's first two exams.  With finals less than two weeks away, I knew I was going to have to get serious in order to pull off a decent grade for the semester.

If the day was looking grim by 8:00 AM even, it was to get a whole lot worse over the next 18 hours or so.  It was my 20th birthday, but there would be no celebration as it turned out, the events of the day overshadowing the relative unimportance of the anniversary of my birth and any particular need commemorate it.  The eighth day of the month normally associated with
such beautiful
holiday celebrations always brought such sadness for me, for reasons that you are quite familiar with and don't require much in the way of explanation.  Joseph always tried to spend that day with me, but I would not be seeing him today in any event; he was very busy at school and was preparing for his exams.  I did call him the day before to wish him a happy birthday and he thanked me for the album I had sent him;
Boys Don't Cry
, by The Cure
, and we both agreed that we were looking forward to listening to it and catching up over our winter semester break.

We were in our sophomore year now and I knew he was not having an easy time.  On
e
would think that the degree of open-mindedness would have improved with the transition from high school to college, but that had not proven to be the case.  Joseph was never one to hide his feelings, and if the university environment back in 1980 was not conducive to an enlightened dialogue on such subjects as sexual identity and gender equality, well that wasn't going to stop him from voicing his opinions.  He complained that the atmosphere at Northwestern was homophobic and sexist and that the hostility he encountered was essentially condoned by students and faculty alike.

I knew he was trying his best to fit in, and I respected his resilience, but for Joseph there was no closet to hide in, no alternative but to brace himself against the sneering classmates and the vulgar behavior he may have been experiencing on a somewhat regular basis.  I was sickened by the thought that someone might really be harassing him, even though he tended to play such things down.  I visited him whenever I could get away and although I never observed anything overt, I did sense a degree of antagonism that I couldn't quite characterize, something subtle but n
o less
disconcerting.  But Joseph always managed to make friends easily, likable as he was, and I knew he had made some good ones at school as well, so at least he wasn't sitting alone in his room every night with his physics and sociology textbooks providing
the only distraction.

A feeling of
gloom had
settled in pretty well by the time I found a seat in the back of the auditorium where Mr. Wackerson was engaging one of the students on the subject of opportunity costs and its relation to marginal value.  Since I hadn't done the required reading, it wouldn't have made any less sense to me if they were discussing it in Chinese.  I was leafing through the textbook trying to see if I could follow some of it so the hour wouldn't be a complete waste.

But thoughts of Sherri Chadwick interrupted my
studious
endeavors and darkened my mood even further.  Sherri and I had met in freshman psychology class and by the end of our first semester, I was completely taken with her and totally in love.  Maybe it was more romantic fantasy, or just plain delusional thinking, but I was convinced that this was the real thing, that
we
were the perfect couple, and that we would eventually get married, once we were done with school and figured out what adults were really supposed to do, when studying and partying were no longer
our
only demands.  OK, maybe we weren't perfect together, there were arguments and issues of course, but from my perspective we worked through them nicely and since we were so crazy about each other, any resolved differences would only serve to strengthen the relationship and our commitment to each other.

Considering all possible objections in advance, I decided to ask Sherri to marry me.  Sure we were pretty young, but we could get engaged and put off the actual marriage until we graduated in two more years.  That way, we could start a family early, since both of us had expressed a desire for having at least two, and
maybe
more children if possible.  So you can imagine my shock and
disbelief
when Sherri, just two weeks earlier when I made my proposal, not only declined the offer, but said that she had been thinking a lot about us and she felt like maybe we needed a break; we should give it more time or possibly see other people.  What other people could she possibly be referring to, I wondered.  I argued my case like F. Lee Bailey, but of course
to no advantage.  Once the dreaded I need more space words are spoken, the jury has not only reached a verdict, but has left the courtroom for home as well.

My reaction
shifted
from sadness, to anger, to disbelief, then for at least awhile, settled on anger.  I shouted at her and asked why she had wasted 14 months of my life, what was the point of it, why bother with me in the first place?  She
was defensive obviously, and uncomfortable certainly, having to now deal with my resentment
and verbal tirades.  She
tried the I still care about you and the let's be friends
routine
, which
p
issed me off even more.  Friends, was she serious?  Joseph was my friend, Christian was my friend, but I just wanted her out of my sight; sure let's be friends, let's pretend you didn't shatter my life, let's keep in touch, OK, good luck to you then.  I don't want your friendship
;
you're useless.  I told her she could now spend a lifetime facing the consequences of her stupid decision.  Just be gone so I don't have to look at you
.
  I was done with girls now, what did I need them for
? 
I was better off without Sherry anyway; I hated her. 
I was never to get married
, so
now you know
that matrimony just wasn’t in my future.

As my depression grew over the next two weeks, studying became more than the inconvenience it had previously been
;
so now you
also
know that at least I had a reasonable excuse for falling behind and it wasn't due to
sheer
laziness. 
B
ut now I would need to bust my butt, and so by the end of the economics lecture, I had sketched out a plan that would allow me to get caught up in my studies and hopefully pull at least a 3.0 average for the semester.  It would start tonight after dinner; I'd go to the library each evening for a few hours and work on one or two assignments
.
 
I'd study all weekend too and not play bridge or drink anything, and by
the
time
exams started in ten days, I'd be in decent shape
one would hope.

But you know the old saying, the best-laid plans of mice and men, whatever that means I have no idea, might actually apply in this situation, as we are about to see.  I read in a quiet library alcove until after 11:00 that evening; by then my eyes were quite tired, my mind saturated with
supply curves
and Spanish idioms.  I walked back to the dorm, deciding that I would try to get to sleep earlier tonight, provided that I could avoid my dorm mates and their enticements to drink and play cards again.

The TV was on in the lounge area with a group of ten or more kids crowded around it, murmuring and pointing; some seemed to be shaking their heads as if in disbelief and I thought I heard one of the girls crying, her girlfriend with an arm around her shoulders, steadying her.  I almost kept walking straight to the elevator, but the announcer's voice caught my attention then and I looked more closely at what was on the screen.  Where was this being filmed, the background seemed strangely familiar to me somehow, and then as I moved up to
get a better look
, I was
able
to hear some scat
tered portions of the broadcast
.

O
utside The Dakota, shortly before 11:00 PM, pronounced dead at Roosevelt
  
Hospital at 11:15.
 

No, it couldn't be true, not this, not John, please God, tell me I heard it wrong.

Anger and grief blend in a powerful potion that can overwhelm a person who ingests it, the mix afflicting millions of John Lennon's fans around the world who were devastated by the unimaginable murder.  Their outpouring could be heard everywhere over the upcoming days, no one seemingly immune or indifferent to the shattering news.  A huge vigil was planned for December 14, outside the Dakota where John had bled to death.  Joseph wanted so badly to go with me, but it was right before his exams and
he
just couldn't do it.  I tried hard to convince him, but I had to acknowledge that his entire semester might be irreparably impacted by the decision and though I hated to do this without him, I would go to New York alone. 
More than 200,000 people stood for ten minutes
in
silence that evening to pay tribute to a man who had spread the dream of peace through his music and his life.  Then the
y
marched with candles, some carrying portable tape players on their shoulders that played John's songs; small groups formed and they would walk together so they could hear the music that someone was thoughtful enough to bring along, and so I too joined a group, seven or eight of us, walking in the cold evening and singing together.

Nothing you can do that can't be done

Nothing you can sing that can't be sung

I moved along with the others like that for another hour, wishing I could stay there all night.  But I had to hurry to the airport to catch the midnight plane back to Chicago; my exams would be waiting for me the very next day.  The passengers were quiet on the two hour flight home, most likely because it was so late, but quite possibly because they too were absorbed in sad reflection over the recent events, and maybe they also were hearing the music still inside their heads like I was. 

Keep on playing those mind games forever

Raising the spirit of peace and love

I'd somehow managed an A and three B's on my finals, but it didn't seem all that gratifying or important now. 
Every birthday from that point would be marked by yet another sad event and would serve as a day of remembrance for us; celebrations tempered by loss certainly, but with the music still very much alive.

All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends I still can recall

Some are dead and some are living

In my life, I've loved them all

I was relieved when the first anniversary of the car accident finally came and went and was hopeful that things might now start returning to normal.  Of course normal was a relative term and I knew things could never be normal again for me, but a little bit easier I
hoped.  Now the question had arisen as to where I would be celebrating Christmas in 1975; the Casslemonds having invited me to spend the holiday with them.  Aunt Doreen was still staying with her cousin and though her recent outbursts had made me less than enthusiastic about going there, I decided it would be best to split the time up; I'd go to the Casslemond's for Christmas Eve dinner and to Mildred's house on Christmas day.